The Gift of Broken Gemstones
by elen-writings
Summary: The War of Wrath destroyed Beleriand and left Endórë a desolate land. The remnants of the Eldalië have fled south to Eriador under the High King of the Noldor Gil-galad. Híthriel is left to die by the ungolócë poison in her blood, even as a shadow of the past stirs in the East, haunting the Eldalië and rousing their thirst for vengeance. Sequel to 'The Story of an Elleth in Exile'.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

* * *

— _before—_

The roaring of the seas had died down at last, and ruin encased the earth wholly. The skies were bleeding silver rain that fell upon the drowned land like the tears of Nienna, Lady of Mourning and Pity. There was nothing now but the ghost of the fortress in the north—its lovely beauty and sweet darkness had fallen into the abyss of the sea. South from here, glimpses of the ruins of Himring and some of the mountains of Mithrim to the west could be seen out of the glassy, dark mirror. The trees were drowned in the water's sweet intoxication and so did many of the last of the people, not that it was ever recorded that the drowning of Beleriand slaughtered the surviving Eldalië and Atani as well as the servants of shadow.

Mairon stooped, crooked and broken upon the snow-blanketed ground, his head bowed in despair and utter defeat. The white flakes fell upon his auburn hair, a tangled mess matted with crusts of dried blood. He carried no daggers upon him, not even one hidden in his boot, and his garb was mildly ragged, smeared with blotches of scarlet. He pressed a shaking hand upon a wound bleeding at his side, trying to conceal his obvious pain of the injury yet chiefly of the downfallen fortress in the north. The trail of blood he had left upon the ground had soaked into the snow, imbruing its pure whiteness like a splatter of ink on parchment.

Eönwë was behind him, standing, sword still in hand and the steel stained with scarlet, his countenance revealing nothing but vain consolation. He took a uncertain step toward his old friend now archenemy, hesitated, and slid his sword back into its sheath upon his back. The wings upon his back were heavy with fatigue although he strived to keep them up, trying to be sure that no one saw his weariness nor his weakness. He had almost let his feet sink into the snow as he dared another step forward, noting Mairon's every movement.

When Ancalagon had fallen, his massive body breaking the towers of Thangorodrim, and the last of the Urulóki destroyed, all the pits of Morgoth were broken and unroofed, and the might of the Valar descended into the depths of the earth. There Morgoth stood at last at bay, and yet unvaliant. He fled into the deepest of his mines, and sued for peace and pardon; but his feet were hewn from under him, and he was hurled upon his face. Then he was bound with the chain Angainor which he had worn aforetime, and his iron crown they beat into a collar for his neck, and his head was bowed upon his knees. And the two Silmarils which remained to Morgoth were taken from his crown, and they shone unsullied beneath the sky; and Eönwë took them, and guarded them.

He had remembered Mairon, who he had fought at the very end of the war. His orders from Manwë were to keep him occupied so that he could not go to fight beside his Urulóki, for they would, doubtless, rally at his coming. Eönwë knew of the great care he gave for them, even as he masked his desperateness beneath the ruthless smile he had curved onto his lips, and it hurt him more than he would have thought. He had fought him nonetheless, and given him the hideous wound at his side.

After he had entrusted the Silmarils to his squire, commanding the lords of the Vanyar and Noldor to guard it with care, he returned to the desolation of the land where he and Mairon had fought. For hours he had wandered in the snow-stricken forest, the trees grey, bare, and lonely in the straying mist. It was odd to feel no presence of life anywhere about save the icy trees; not even ravens perched amongst them, for many of them had been spies of Morgoth. There was only a barren, frozen world, dead even after the victory of the war. Such a bitter victory it had cost them, so sour, so biting. Were victories not supposed to be sweet? After all, that was how they were sung in the songs.

Then at last he had found him in the snow, wounded and broken, but not nearly dead. It was told among the Valar that in the beginning of Arda, Morgoth had seduced him to his allegiance, and he became one of his greatest and most trusted servants. They said that he was the most perilous, for he could assume many forms, and for as long as he willed he could appear noble and beautiful, so as to deceive all but the most wary.

In Aman, to rally the Eldalië, Manwë had given a speech reciting all the evil deeds of Melkor, and Mairon's beside him. He spoke of what Melkor had done in the First War of Arda, defiling the pure green earth and destroying the Lamps, of how he had suborned Ungoliant to his will, consuming the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, and of what he had done to all the Eldalië in the First Age in Endórë. He told of how Mairon had how he had nearly slain Beren and Lúthien, slaughtered the last Barahir and his companions, of how he had killed Finrod Felagund, whom he had known as Findaráto in Quenya.

Eönwë wondered if that was all true, thinking of how they called him _Sauron_ now, the vile, the terrible, the cruel. He still remembered their friendship in Aman in the beginning of Arda, and almost longed for it again. Sometimes he wearied merely from thinking of it, the burden of memory too great on him.

Now Mairon was before him, at his mercy, broken and despairing. The Valar had severed Morgoth's feet from under him when he was at last found. He wondered if he was obliged to do the same to Mairon.

"I am spent," Eönwë said at last. "The war is over. The fortress in the north has fallen, and Morgoth conquered. You are free now, free to your own will, Mairon."

Mairon lifted his head vaguely, his voice was cracked and despairing when he spoke. "What would you have me do?"

Eönwë hesitated. "Come back with me to Aman. There you may receive judgement with Lord Manwë and live as you did before in Valinor. I would do it myself, but it is not in my place to pardon those of my own order."

There was a moment of absolute silence, for there were no leaves upon the boughs of trees to shake in the wind.

"I confess that I do remember those times," Mairon said softly. "Those sweet, foolish days in Aman when the world was young and the mountains green. How naïve we were—do you remember? How doltish, how senseless. What is life without struggle, without pain?"

Eönwë noticed that he had shifted out of his winged form. "Vain."

He turned, the gash on his cheekbone glistening scarlet. "How many losses?"

"Severe, they say," Eönwë told him. "We have lost many, more than we can count. It will a be a grief unspoken of when we return to Aman."

"I almost regret it," Mairon murmured, his eyes cast to the ground.

Eönwë was almost surprised.

"I was frightened," Mairon said. "I hadn't remembered feeling fear like that for many centuries. The wrath of the Valar was great, more than I would have imagined."

"I was afraid too," Eönwë confessed. "Their power. . .I did not know it could be like that."

"I did not know _you_ could be like that. I did not know _you_ could do such terrible things."

"Neither did I."

Eönwë held his gaze long and steadily. "You're very. . .different from before."

"I know."

He hesitated again. "Will you come?"

Mairon bared his teeth, although still a mere shadow of the fierceness he had shown before. "Not in this state."

Eönwë took another cautious step forward, holding out his hand to him as if he could help, but Mairon growled, the talons upon his hand suddenly coming forth and slashing across his bare hand. Blood ran out from the jagged slash, leaking to the snow before him. Mairon stood up, with difficulty, and limped backwards.

"If you care of me, _leave me_ ," Mairon hissed, his crimson eyes suddenly alive and ablaze again, yet only for a moment.

Eönwë opened his mouth and closed it, not knowing what to say. "I hope you do choose to come," he said quietly, and turned away. He knew that Mairon was ashamed to return to the Valar in humiliation and to receive from them a sentence, for it might well be a long servitude in proof of his good faith. In the days when Aman thrived, Mairon had been a Maia of Aulë, and worked in the forges often. He remembered how he was so fond of order, planning, and coordination, disliking confusion and chaos. It was quite ironic how it had all come to be now, wasn't it?

He took a shuddering breath, feeling the frigid air seep into his lungs, and when he let it out, the warmth formed a short-lived cloud before his lips.

When he turned around again, Mairon was gone.

In a few hours' time, he made his way back to the camp, concealing his tattered hand in the shadows of his cloak as best he could for the others. He nodded politely at some of the Eldalië lords that passed by but made haste to his tent, where he knew his squire would be waiting. The earth felt moist and damp beneath his feet even with his combat boots on; the tears of Nienna had touched Yavanna and seeped through it all, weeping for the bitter sorrow of their victory.

His squire was a young Vanya, golden-haired and green-eyed, generally outspoken and vehement, yet today he was silent and wan when he called for him. He wore only a weathered grey cloak against the cold and light shoes, but seemed not to be bothered by the chill.

"Hetanë, will you help me bind this wound?" Eönwë said, and the ellon nodded, going to retrieve the salve and bindings.

"Where did you go, my lord?" Hetanë asked when he had returned and was cleaning the wound.

"Beyond the forest," Eönwë told him, his eyes staring distantly past all things. Then he would say no more.

When Hetanë was finished, he made his way to the tent where the Silmarils were being kept, and gave a crisp nod to each of the guards outside. It was nightfall now, and they made sure to stand tall and straight before their commander, pretending they were unafraid and not doleful.

The jewels were wrapped in thick cloths that concealed their scintillating light, but now Eönwë stepped forward and unveiled them, gazing at the cruelly beautiful brilliance. Funny how they would fight wars for these trinkets, these cold stars.

A messenger let himself in the tent. "My lord Eönwë."

He covered the Silmarils and turned. "Yes?"

"The last two sons of Fëanáro have brought a message, bidding you yield up the jewels which of old their father made and Morgoth stole from him," the messenger said, eyes glinting as Phanaikelūth revealed its cold light through the flaps of the tent flying in the gale.

Eönwë remembered Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë from Valinor. They had been young, guiltless ellyn then, untainted with melancholy and sorrow. It was a pity how it had all come to this. Now they stood alone against all the world, even in all their weariness and loathing. But the right to the work of their father, which the sons of Fëanor formerly possessed, had now perished, because of their many and merciless deeds, being blinded by their oath, and most of all because of their slaying of Dior and the assault upon the Havens. The light of the Silmarils should go now into the West, whence it came in the beginning; to Valinor must they return, and there abide the judgement of the Valar, by whose decree alone would Eönwë yield the jewels from his charge.

 _Alone against all the world._ "Thank you for telling me. I will send them my answer on the morrow."

Eönwë went to the crest of the crag and gazed at the drowned land before him. The sea dangerously quiet and bitterly beautiful, so dark it seemed like the everlasting darkness itself. A mirror it had been, and a mirror it would be, he hoped. He hoped for a lot of things, and not many of them came true.

Alone against all the world.

He could almost hear Mairon laughing at the words.

* * *

 _Phanaikelūth._ (V) Valian/Valarin word for the Moon.

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn_.

* * *

*Chapter XXIV, 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath,' _The Quenta Silmarillion._


	2. Part One: Chapter I

PART ONE: SOLITUDE

* * *

CHAPTER I

* * *

 _Mithlond, S.A. 600_

"Happy begetting day, Híthriel," Tyelpe said, handing me a glass of Sindarin wine.

I accepted the drink courteously, receiving it with both hands and a dip of my head. "Thank you."

It was the night of Tarnin Hríve indeed, although we knew that it was not truly my begetting day, merely when we observed it to be. Some Eldalië were dancing in pairs to the septet's lilting music throughout the hall, and others conversed along the perimeter of the chamber. I myself was garbed in a mantle-like dress of black, jeweled with crystals like the scatter of stars upon the night sky. Many were present here, for a council had been called from all the cities of the realm of Lindon; thus people from Mithlond, Forlond, and Harlond had all gathered within this hall. Tonight was the feast and celebration; there would be pensive talk on the morrow.

"Artanis was looking for you earlier." I swirled the glass in my hand as Tyelpe's face flushed. I made sure no one had noticed when I slipped a bit of the draft for the ungolócë into the wine. It was better to do it at regular intervals; I could not risk not to.

"Was she?" he said, turning his face and trying in vain to pretend that the crimson upon his cheeks was from the wine.

"Yes," I told him, pointedly ignoring his countenance. "She seems to have a. . .concern. I think I will let the two of you figure that out."

He looked relieved, desperate to change the topic. "Likewise, I came upon Dínaelin some time before this. He seemed inclined to speak to you; I suppose he'll find you sometime soon."

"Oh?" I said. "What for?"

"Ah, I don't suppose I know," Tyelpe said, still looking pained from speaking of Artanis. "Perhaps for a talk?"

"Good answer." I took a sip of the wine. "I heard you made her. . .a trinket?"

"Who?" he said sharply. "Oh, yes, indeed. I did. It is another version of the Elessar, like the one I made in Gondolin."

"The word—Elessar. Is it Annúnaid?" I asked.

"Yes, Westron," Tyelpe said, evidently still distracted. He was tapping his fingers nervously upon the table and looking about. "Annúnaid or Falathren, depending on what you call it in Sindarin."

"The language comes from Taliska, does it not?" I calmly observed his fidgets, and upon catching his darting eyes took another taste of the wine to cover up my expression. "Evolved from the language of the Edain spoken by the House of Bëor and the House of Hador."

"Yes, which was also influenced by the Naugrim," Tyelpe told me. "Did I tell you I learned some of Khuzdûl? It's quite an interesting language. Very different from Sindarin, even more from Quenya."

"You did not. Moryo learned Taliska once—do you remember? It was during the Long Peace. It seems that the Haleth girl—the Chieftain of the Haladin, that is—was an excellent tutor; Moryo, in fact, did develop a Taliska accent on his Noldorin speech."

He seemed surprised for me to speak so openly of Fëanorians in this age, more than six centuries after their downfall, although he certainly could be counted as one himself. The First Age itself had lasted nearly six centuries. "Why. . .yes, I remember."

I smiled faintly. "For that I am glad. It seemed Moryo had been quite happy then, when he met Haleth, don't you think?"

"What are you suggesting?"

The thought made me sad. "Ah—nothing."

"Good," Tyelpe said stiffly. "I don't take favor in my heritage."

We spent a strained moment in silence. I opened my mouth.

"May I ask, what is on your—"

"Ah, look—there comes Dínaelin!" Tyelpe exclaimed loudly, drawing the ellon's attention. "He must have been looking for you for _so long;_ I should have gone to tell him!"

Perhaps when I was younger I might have rolled my eyes, but I only smiled warmly as Dínaelin approached. "Suilad, iaur mellon!" I said, lightly embracing him. "It has been long since we last met."

"Híthriel," he said by way of greeting. "It's nice seeing you again."

"Likewise," I said, noting that Tyelpe had somehow disappeared. "How have you been doing? Do you reside in Forlond?"

"I do," Dínaelin told me. "Naergon and Saerin are there too."

"Are they. . .here tonight?" I inquired.

"Yes, in fact." Dínaelin jerked his chin to the other side of the room. "I believe Saerin is somewhere over there, but Naergon—I think he has stayed behind tonight."

I tried not to linger on the last part of that. "And Silivros and Talethien? Have you seen them?"

"Oh, the Harlond ones?" He chuckled. "Yes. Églanim too. It's quite a large festival this year, you know. You needn't ask."

"I only wondered."

We watched for a moment as the Eldalië danced, their garb shimmering in the flickering candlelight.

"You have been in Mithlond all this time?" Dínaelin asked.

"Most of the time, I suppose," I told him. "Though at times I go elsewhere. Tyelpe plans on founding another realm somewhere farther away from here, in the east. We've been looking by the Hithaeglir, at the base of the mountains."

"Miss somewhere colder?"

I smiled. "Now that you mention it, I guess so."

"I take it the weather there is like Gondolin?" he inquired.

"I'd say the north in general, but yes."

Dínaelin turned to face me. "Where were you before Gondolin? You've never told me."

"I've never spoken to you that much," I reminded him. "Only those short instances in Gondolin and some time after. . .it happened." It was hard for me to say the words of the Drowning of Beleriand—it made me think of drowning in ashes, in ruin, in _fire_.

 _We said goodbye long ago. This shouldn't be so hard, should it be?_

Not anymore, I hoped.

Dínaelin's words drew me from my thoughts. "True," he said, sighing. "A decent ellon wouldn't pry so much into an elleth's life, would they?"

I gave him a quizzical look and granted myself another mouthful of the Sindarin wine, forgetting what we had been speaking of before. My cheeks were beginning to feel flushed from the spirituous drink so I set the glass down upon the table, a little too forcefully.

"Are you all right?" Dínaelin asked.

"Hm? Ah, yes. My hand slipped," I told him stiffly. "I have become. . .careless nowadays. Would you like my drink?"

"I'm sorry? Ah, all right, if you would like." He sounded confused, but I did not turn to look.

"I think I will be going for a breath of air outside," I said, slipping the glass into his fingers. "Pleasant talk."

I brushed past the Eldalië conversing lightly and headed out of the hall swiftly before Dínaelin could say anything else or follow. The night air outside was cool, but not as cold and crisp as it had been in Himring. In the rippling of the water in the slight wind, I could see the reflections of the archways and cloisters of the city of Mithlond, lavish, intricate designs carved into their pillars. It reminded me of the Falas, in a way, for it was a quiet realm by the sea, far away from many things and yet not.

Sometimes speaking so much Sindarin made me afraid that I would forget the old tongue of Quenya and the amilessë my mother had given me. I didn't want to lose who I was, even though the truth may be hideous. I had to remember who I was, I had to remember what had happened. _Do not forget_ , Artanis had warned me. I hadn't in fact, and to be sure of it, wrote much of it down. Perhaps someday I would make an amusing list of adjectives of myself and recite them.

I noticed suddenly that someone was behind me, and turned to find a little girl standing there, her eyes wan and the silver of the Sindar. Like I was, she was garbed in a formal raiment for the feast—a long dress of gold that drifted to the ground at the ends. It was an elaborate, lavish gown, but she still had the child's face, and looked about twelve in Eldalië years, which would have been, in appearance, like a four year old Atani girl.

"Hello there," I said to her.

"Hello," she returned, walking over to the edge of the pier where I stood, and sat down, her legs dangling over the side and brushing the water.

I sat myself down beside her and gazed into the dark horizon beyond as she did the same. Children were rare and greatly treasured in Eldalië societies, and was a green time of growth and joy for many. The Eldalië wedded for the most part in their youth and soon after their fiftieth year. They had few children, but these were very dear to them. Their families, or houses, were held together by love and a deep feeling for kinship in mind and body; and the children needed little governing or teaching. There were seldom more than four children in any house, and the number grew less as ages passed.

It was told that the Eldalië grew in bodily form slower than Atani, but in mind more swiftly. They learned to speak before they were one year old; and in the same time they learned to walk and to dance, for their wills came soon to the mastery of their bodies.

Nonetheless there was less difference between the two Kindreds in early youth; and a man who watched elf-children at play might well have believed that they were the children of Atani, of some fair and happy people. For in their early days Eldalië children delighted still in the world about them, and the fire of their spirit had not consumed them, and the burden of memory was still light upon them.*

"Do you live in Mithlond?" I asked her. "Or are you here for the gathering?"

"My father and I come from Harlond," she told me. "My uncle is a lord there." She turned to me. "Vandë omentaina. My name is Taeloth."

I was taken aback by her use of Quenya, and opened my mouth to reply, but no words came out.

She laughed softly, her silver hair glinting in the starlight. "I thought you would enjoy a bit of the Old Tongue."

I smiled faintly. "I did. I'm sorry about that—I am known as Híthriel."

Taeloth nodded, and turned back to the silent sea. All was quiet for a moment, then—

"Did you fight in the War of Wrath?"

I was motionless for a brief moment, then lowered my gaze to the dark waters. "No. Only survived it."

She hadn't turned to look at me. "They say that none of the Hither Lands fought in it, nor the Teleri. Only those from the Blessed Realm of Valinor."

I didn't reply for a long while. At last Taeloth stood, dipping her head at me.

"I should head back. They would be looking for me," she said.

"It was pleasure meeting you, Taeloth," I returned.

"Likewise," she said, and retreated back to the hall.

A few moments later an ellon stepped out from the shadows of the cloister and settled where Taeloth had been.

"Talethien," I said, surprised. "I thought you would be at the feast."

"I was," he admitted, turning to face me. "Well met, Lady Híthriel. It has been long since our last meeting." He still looked quite the same from when I had last seen him at the beginning of the Second Age, with the common Sindarin traits of silver hair and eyes, but now his eyes were marked with something different than it had before—when I first met him he had been young and naïve. The Kinslaying at Doriath had changed us all, had opened our eyes to a new sort of cruelty we had only experienced once before.

"Should I be glad that you address me as 'lady' after what you have seen me do? I am no lady, and you know that well," I said.

"I know the third High King of the Noldor Fingolfin took you as his child in the early years of the First Age, Híthriel. It is no secret to me now."

"It never was," I muttered. "Who told you?"

"Lord Celebrimbor, evidently," Talethien said. "Who else could it have been? I was speaking to him when I left for Harlond."

"I would not have known that."

He sighed, then jerked his chin to where Taeloth had gone. "That was my niece you were speaking to there."

"Really?" I said, cocking my head, and he nodded. "And you called me a deceiver."

"What do you mean?" Talethien went stiff.

"Unless she has more uncles, which she likely does, you're a lord of the Sindar."

He sighed again in defeat. "Amusing way to figure out that bit of information."

"And you accused me for inventing a name for Églanim. What is your true name?"

"Talethien _is_ a name of mine," he protested. "At least now it is, as an epessë."

I laughed, throwing my head back. "Oh, very clever. What is your ataressë?"

Talethien scowled, in resignation and humiliation. "Oropher."

"You don't like beech trees?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why would you alter your name for me when you have such a nicely devised name of tall beech trees?"

"I'm not very tall," Talethien complained. "It would be inaccurate."

A sudden unwanted thought strayed into my mind. _Compared to Maedhros the Tall you aren't_. _That's what Finno always said_. I immediately wanted to unmake time.

"Hith?" Talethien said.

I noticed my knuckles were white, as I had clenched my hands into fierce fists. "What is it?"

He turned away. "Nothing."

There was a short silence, but at length I spoke again.

"Are you a relative of Thingol's then? He didn't like me very much. It wouldn't be surprising if he influenced you to think that way—he did that to his entire realm, evidently."

"Something like that." Talethien shifted uncomfortably.

"Taeloth is a good child. You have taught her well."

"How did you know?"

I paused. "What did I know?"

He drew in a breath. "Her father was killed in the Second Kinslaying. Her mother was wounded from the battle, and died shortly after birthing her. I have raised Taeloth since she was a mere babe. My wife was slain at Doriath too."

I was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry. I understand."

"You do, don't you?" He glanced at me for a fleeting moment, as if realizing something. "You lost everyone—everything."

I looked at him, my eyes glinting in the moonlight as I turned. "More years have passed since the span of the First Age. It matters not now." Preferring to change the topic, I spoke again. "I can understand why your people hate the Noldor so much."

"It was not all of you," Talethien said. "Or half of you, whatever the other half of your blood is."

"Would you like to know?"

He considered it. "It may be to my interest, yes."

"My father is a Maia."

"Was he there in the War?" Talethien asked, almost by instinct.

I only said, "Yes."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ungolócë._ (Q) A lethal poison; lit. Serpent in the Shadows.

 _Annúnaid._ (S) Sindarin name for the language Andûni, or Westron.

 _Westron._ The language of the Dúnedain of Middle-earth. By the end of the Third Age it was more or less a universal language spoken throughout the Westlands.

 _Falathren._ (S) A Sindarin name for Westron. It is derived from the word falas, "shore", as its first speakers settled on the shores of Middle-earth.

 _Taliska._ (S) A Mannish language spoken by the Edain of the House of Bëor and House of Hador.

 _Khuzdûl._ The language of the Naugrim. Not much is known of the language, as the Naugrim kept it to themselves.

 _Suilad, iaur mellon._ (S) Greetings, old friend.

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn_.

 _Amilessë._ (Q) Mother-name.

 _Vandë omentaina._ (Q) Pleased to meet you.

 _Epessë._ (Q) Chosen name.

 _Ataressë._ (Q) Father-name.

* * *

*Morgoth's Ring, Part III. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: The Second Phase: Laws and Customs among the Eldar.


	3. Chapter II

CHAPTER II

* * *

— _Tuilë—_

Dawn had scarcely arisen; the clouds overhead were grey and languid, like blotches of snow smeared with ash. A light breeze came and went, brushing over the faintly rippling waves by the pier. I was walking upon the cobblestoned road the morning after Tarnin Tuilë, the streets of Mithlond quiet and still, as they usually were in this part of the city, and a bird flitted over a tree and landed on a shaded bough, looking about.

I stayed in a small place on the far side of Mithlond overlooking the Ered Luin, which had been before called the Ered Lindon, the mountain chain which by Thargelion had been built. The northern mountains had been destroyed along with the rest of the land, but few of the southern ones remained. In the east, in Ossiriand, when the walls of Ered Luin were broken, a great gap was made in them towards the south, and a gulf of the sea flowed in. Into that gulf the River Lhûn fell by a new course, and it was called therefore the Gulf of Lhûn.

I turned a corner, my feet skidding upon the cobblestones as suddenly something silver came flashing toward me, fast as a beam of light—

With a deft duck, I spun upon the balls of my feet, twisting, and caught the sword that had somehow come flying at me. My heart was still pounding in my chest painfully, and my eyes wide, although I feigned boredom as I straightened and turned.

"Mae govannen, Naergon," I said as courteously as I could.

He was reasonably less tousled than last I had seen him, the ghost of his amputated arm discernable both on his hröa and his irate amber eyes. He wore a tunic fit for training and a pair of olive green breeches grimed with dust, and his dark hair was unbound and unkempt. In his left hand he held aloft another gleaming sword, and stood unmoving in a fighting stance.

"Do you consider this a well-made meeting, Lady Híthriel?" Naergon said, not all too icily.

"I would say so," I said, examining the blade in my hand. "This is a good sword."

"Thank you," he said stiffly.

"Have you been training?" I asked him, trying to keep my voice casual and unconcerned.

"Evidently," he said, each syllable of the word clipped.

I tested the sword's weight in my hand. "I hope you weren't meaning to skewer me when you threw this at me."

"I hope not also."

"Dínaelin told me you reside in Forlond," I said. "How is it there?"

"Fine enough," Naergon said. "It's a city, and there's a roof over my head. How about you?"

"I live in this city," I told him. "On the far side of it. You could come by sometime, if you like."

He clenched his jaw. "Perhaps."

Hilt first, I offered the sword back to him. "I'm afraid I have somewhere to be. It was nice meeting you again, Naergon."

"Likewise." He slid his other sword into a sheath upon his back and grasped the hilt of the one I held before him.

I dipped my head. "Farewell."

He only gave a curt nod of his head in return before I turned and headed back down the street.

* * *

The sunlight streaming through the diaphanous curtains was faded gold, the light reflecting off the glass of the goblet of tea that Artanáro—or Gil-galad now—had just set before me. I inclined my head in thanks.

"Hannon le, hîr vuin," I said.

"Gi nathlam hí, Lady Híthriel," he returned. "It seems to me there is something that concerns you that we have a need to speak of."

He looked more kingly now than I had ever seen him, even wearing casual garb in his chambers; he sat tall and straight with his chin lifted, and looked very much like Finno. He had the same cerulean eyes, and the same dark hair, and also the mien of cool confidence. It made me feel a tinge of melancholy to look at him.

"Must there always be a concern when I break my fast with an old friend?" I jested.

Gil-galad smiled a little. "Of course not. How was Tarnin Tuilë?"

"I didn't dance very much," I told him. "In fact, I don't recall dancing at all. It was pleasant, anyhow. Nicely arranged."

"There is no need to flatter me with every word you say, my lady," he said. "Say what you like."

"I did, as a matter of fact, say what I liked," I said with a clever smile upon my lips.

He laughed. "That's a good one."

"Why thank you," I said, and granted myself a sip of tea. Suddenly I remembered that I had not taken the draft this morning, and quickly slipped a bit of it into my cup. The sweet tea had turned bitter by the time I brought the glass to my lips.

His smile faded. "You're not getting any better?"

I glanced up at his doleful expression. "I'm not going to get any better, Artanáro," I said softly, as if speaking to a child.

"Don't say that. Please don't say that."

I sighed, casting my gaze down to the silver substance still swirling in my cup. "All right."

We were both silent for a long moment. At length I opened my mouth and spoke again. "What I was here for."

Gil-galad raised his eyes, intent.

"The last time Tyelpe and I went to Hithaeglir, we lost two, and I do not think by accident."

"I know of that," Gil-galad said quietly.

"The first was Aeglos son of Aeglir, found flayed and hung in a tree, in that order. The second was Faelwë son of Faltho, his body dismembered and his head on a stick, in that order. Again. No mere accident. Evidently. These deaths have been happening for a century now."

"No mere accident," he echoed, the voice so low I had to strain to hear.

"Give me leave to deal with this."

"You're dying," he gritted out.

I was used to hearing these grim words. "Even more reason to give me the job."

"I can't—"

"You can." I pinned his gaze to mine, making sure he did not break it. "Let me do this. Please. Let me do something _meaningful_ with the rest of my valardamned life. I've never done anything _good_ with it."

"You don't think the Valar will let you out of Mandos," he noted.

I faltered. "No. I don't."

"Híthriel, you're not—"

"Don't tell me what I'm not. You don't know who I am. Now let me do this, or you don't have to, if it doesn't please you, Your Grace. It's quite likely I'll go out there myself."

"You're not as terrible as you think you are," he said softly.

I refused to meet his gaze now. "You don't know what I have done, Artanáro."

He was silent for a long moment. "Go then. And bring others with you."

I opened my mouth to reply, but then there was a light knock on the door. I shifted in my seat and composed myself, feigning ignorance.

"Enter," Gil-galad called, and Tyelpe let himself into the chamber.

"Your Grace, Lady Híthriel," Tyelpe said, bowing to both of us. He turned to Gil-galad. "There are. . .ships in the harbor. Quite a few. Led by a . .Númenorean who calls himself Vëantur, Captain of the King's Ships."

Gil-galad was too surprised to complain about the courtesies that Tyelpe and I emphasized, and stood up in astonishment. "Númenoreans?"

Tyelpe shifted uncomfortably. "Yes. The descendents of the Edain."

"And Elros," I murmured, but the words were unheard.

"Notify the court immediately," Gil-galad said. "I need a moment to change into something more fitting."

Tyelpe dipped his head. "As you wish, Your Grace."

Gil-galad made a piqued noise. "You two need to stop calling me that."

I clicked my tongue. "It's time you acknowledge that, as High King of the Noldor, you will be addressed as 'Your Grace', Your Grace."

"As High King of the Noldor, I command you to do as I commanded," he said. "Go on. I'm sure the. . . _Númenoreans_ will be so pleased to meet you."

"As you wish, Your Grace," I said with an inclination of my head.

"Agh, get out." He made a face and ushered Tyelpe and I out of his chambers.

"I suppose I must be on my way," I said to Tyelpe, making to leave, but he called out to me.

"There's one thing."

I halted, and turned, listening.

"They told us that Elros is now deceased. He died in 442."

I lowered my eyes. "Thank you for telling me."

We parted, and my feet carried me down the corridor, like a funeral march.

* * *

"Lady Galadriel," I greeted Artanis, dipping my head. "Interesting that we chance to meet here."

"Lady Híthriel," Artanis said, as I slid into the wooden seat in front of her at one of the many small diners in Mithlond. She looked more mournful than I had ever seen her, her brow furrowed and the blue in her eyes washed out and weary. The gold in her hair was dull although the noontime sun was shining brightly outside, seeming like an ironic ridicule to the Eldalië that had survived the War of Wrath and the tragedies that had befallen during First Age.

"Tea?" I asked her, as a server came by.

"All right. Just tea, thank you," Artanis said, then returned to looking down at her hands.

"Chamomile, for the both of us," I told the server, who nodded and headed away.

There was a muffled silence as others conversed around us, indifferent to our stillness. I studied the patterns of wood on the table, all the while noting Artanis' actions. She hardly moved, only every now and then stealing quick backward glances to the exits. The server returned promptly with the tea, and poured it for us quietly.

"Thank you," I told the server when she was finished, and she gave me a subtle nod.

Neither of us touched the tea, not until it went cold.

"You look very much like Findaráto," I said at last.

She stilled, and looked up at me. "He was my brother."

"You all have the cerulean eyes," I said. "Whenever I see Artanáro, I am reminded of Findaráto, and Findekáno too."

Her voice shook. "Why do you say their names? _Why?"_

I met her eyes again, bringing my voice to a low whisper. "Because I want it to stop hurting, Artanis."

She turned away, masking her tears.

My countenance was seemingly impassive. "I can't stay like this forever, Artanis. I'm going away from here."

"If this was Himring, you would have been delighted to stay for six centuries. A millenia."

I pressed my lips together. "This isn't Himring."

"I wasn't saying that," Artanis said.

My eyes flashed. "Why do you say this to me? You still have your beloved husband. Go to him and say these things, but not to me. _Not to me._ "

"It still hurts, doesn't it?" she said flatly.

"I did not deny that."

She clenched her jaw. "Good."

It took all of my energy to not snap back at her. I took a long drink of my tea, and realized that my hand was shaking.

"Fuck the valardamned Valar," I muttered, wrenching the flask out and pouring it into the tea. "Why does this have to happen _so much_." It wasn't entirely a question. I angrily spilled the tea into my mouth, and slammed it down on the table, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

Artanis made no comment, for which I was very glad.

* * *

I was immersed deep in thought when Silivros came to sit by me at the dais overlooking the sea. The seabird gulls were flitting about the foaming waves as it lapped at their webbed feet, pecking at the sand whenever the water retreated and flying back when it came too far; the stones by them wet and smooth with their countless years of weathering upon the strand and some specks of fawn-hued sand coating them. Drooping grey clouds hung in large puffs in the late afternoon sky, like tufts of dried stardust flowers, the color leeched from their frail stems.

When I had first come to Lindon shortly after its establishment in the first year of the Second Age, I had spent long years alone, walking past the grey shadows of the Eldalië upon the streets of Mithlond. I had always envied Artanis for all the 'love' that she had; Telepo, her husband, was still with her, and they had survived the Fall of Doriath and Sirion together, and Tyelpe constantly tried to help her. It wasn't the sort of envy that made me want what they gave her, however, only the one when you wish you had but when you get it you realize that you really don't want it. What she had was like a mirror for me. Nonetheless, she was visibly pained, as I was—as we all were.

I hardly spoke to anyone else, only in the isolated occasions that Tyelpe or Gil-galad would invite me over for a cup of tea. The past fortnight had been quite a change, for this year's Tarnin Tuilë had brought my old friends back to me, and I found a new seed of a festering sense sprouting within me. For long I had wanted nothing else but solitude. I had been drowning in a sea of crashing waves, but quietly. I no longer spoke my list of names aloud, but uttered them in my mind almost every fortnight.

I thought of Naergon, and what I had seen of him this morning. I knew hardly anything of him, but remembered what I had seen—the mark. The mark that Rôg had bore, that Gwindor had bore, that Húrin had bore, that Maedhros had bore, that I bore. By simply drawing nigh him, I could feel the anger, the hatred, the _hunger_ for something—for something that he had lost. His arm, perhaps, that I had severed off, for his sake.

For his sake?

 _You lie_ , he had said. _You only want me to be broken and crippled as you are._

I wondered if that was true, and if perhaps he would have survived without the amputation. I wondered if the infection would have killed him if I hadn't done it. I wondered if I should have let him die, rather than watch him suffer through this unbearable hell.

Even now I remembered the time when I was fourteen and Findekáno had returned with a nearly dead Maedhros from Thangorodrim. No one thought he would survive; they all believed that the wound was too great and he could not bear the pain. I remembered the screams when Findekáno was forced to sever off the infected part of the wound and sew together the flap of skin to prevent further infection. I don't know how I managed to stay there and assist Findekáno when he needed me in the procedure, but after I had run out of the tent and vomited into the grass.

It was almost too hard for him to live on. For his entire life he had been known as a valiant warrior, fighting with the sword in his right hand, but now he had lost that, and he had wondered who he was without that hand. The hand that had sworn the oath of his father, the hand that had slaughtered the Teleri at Alqualondë, the hand that had stayed back when Fëanáro ordered the ships to be burned.

I always hated the words—the words that I had heard come countless times as healers went around trying to soothe the wounded and the dying: _let me know if the pain becomes too unbearable_. Pain. I _hated_ the word. I _hated_ it with all my existence. The very sound of the word forced me to clench my teeth and feel the poison of the ungolócë festering within me, killing me with my own blood. What could they do of it? Of the _pain_ that slowly consumed you like a fire from within, tearing you inside out, scattering your tattered pink organs upon the blood-flecked marble dais? Perhaps my ruined hröa told it all.

Silivros startled me out of my thoughts as he approached from behind me. I had been gazing distantly into the rising and falling waves, watching the seabirds wander around and round, and jerked to the side with a start as he uttered my name.

My voice was dull and distant from the thoughts that had just consumed me. "Silivros."

He seemed unhappy that I had not been more excited to see him. "Híthriel. I'm so glad to see you. It's been quite a while."

I realized my indignance and tried to compose myself. "Ah, yes. I'm sorry—I apologize for my. . .demeanour."

"No, it's all right," Silivros said, and made to put a soothing hand on my shoulder, but decided not to, unsure of how I would react to the touch.

In the cove, the seabirds were tittering and squawking at each other, all the while pecking rocks beneath the waves.

"The Númenorians have come," I said, trying to make conversation.

"I heard," Silivros said in response.

"Not interested in meeting them?" I asked.

"I had a glimpse of them," he told me, "but no, not very much interested. I came here wanting a. . .quiet place."

"As do I."

The wind scattered a few dried leaves across the patio, some falling over the edge and to the crag below. But leaves, as light as they were, would not break upon the rock. They would only fall and skid down the rock and into the bay, but would not break. Perhaps some minute part of it would be stripped off in the fall, yet for the most part it would remain whole.

"The 'accidents,'" I began. "I'm sure you've heard of them."

"Yes," Silivros verified.

"I want to bring a change to my life. While I still live," I told him. "I don't want to end, not in this way. I'm hunting them down. Those that had slaughtered our people."

He was silent for a moment. "Who do you think it is?"

"Remnants of the servants of Morgoth from the First Age." _Nonetheless Mairon was not dead, nor wholly lost._ And that alone I knew, for many denied it, though deep inside their hearts they knew.

"You ask me to accompany you?" he inquired, incredulous.

"I'm obliged to." I sighed, casting my gaze to the ground. "I know. I have done you so much wrong. I do not forget all that had happened in Angamando; I do not forget all that I have done. I remember our first meeting clearly, of what I did in the mines. I remember the silver whip, each individual glinting spike as it rose in the air, and the great evil that I did with it. I do not deserve to ask this of you, but. . .I have found that out of so many others, only you would believe wholly in this cause. I would go alone to put you out of danger if I could."

Silivros considered it, sifting through all I had just said. "I remember also. Because of that, my mind is shaped in a different way, unlike all those who would never comply." He raised his eyes to me. "I will go. There is naught else I can think of to make an use of myself. I have lived in silence for too long."

I dipped my head. "Thank you. I could not ask more of you."

He smiled faintly, tinged with melancholy. "Híthriel, you do know. . .if it were not for you, I would not have survived Angamando."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Tuilë._ (Q) Spring [S. _Ethuil]_. 54 days long, starts near the beginning of April and ends near the latter part of May.

 _Mae govannen._ (S) Well met.

 _Hannon le, hîr vuin._ (S) Thank you, my lord.

 _Gi nathlam hí._ (S) You are welcome here.

 _Hröa._ (S) Body, plural _hröar._


	4. Chapter III

CHAPTER III

* * *

 _Mithlond, 602_

The first light of Quellë seeped into the sky as subtly as Yávië had gone, silent and vigilant. Silver crept into the grey clouds hanging above, and a quiet wind swept around the boughs of white birches like the whisper of a secret untold.

Saerin and Silivros rode on either side of me and Tyelpe in the front, so that our positions formed the shape of a diamond. The gates of Mithlond were a little ahead, the stone so mantled by creeping vines that it seemed to be part of the trees. Gil-galad stood at the gates, waiting, and we halted before him. He was adorned in a simple grey cloak as was custom of the Eldalië, but he did not wear the crown of the High King of the Noldor.

Tyelpe dipped his head in a courtly manner. "Your Grace."

Gil-galad ignored that. "I had to come to wish you safe passage."

All of us inclined our heads in reverence and gratitude. In his eyes, I could see that he did not wish for us to go.

"Thank you," I told him, then wavered, choosing my next word. ". . .Artanáro."

He gave me the slightest of smiles. "Merin sa haryalyë valto," he said in the old tongue.

I was glad he had not forgotten it.

We had begun to turn away when a voice called from behind. I wheeled my horse around to find Taeloth running toward us, waving her arms wildly to us. She was arrayed in an olive-hued garb fit for riding and with a too-large bow slung across her back.

"What is it, child?" Saerin said, none too irritably.

"I am no child," Taeloth told him fiercely, then turned to me. "My lady, I wish to go with you upon your journey to Hithaeglir."

I sighed, and ushered my horse forward to her. "Taeloth, there is no beauty in war. It is a cruel thing."

"You aren't riding to _war_ ," she objected stubbornly.

"No," I said, "but we ride to peril." _And perhaps to doom._ "I cannot bestow this upon you. Stay in Mithlond, Taeloth. You are young, and do not understand these things."

"I _do_ ," she insisted angrily. " _You_ don't understand. My uncle lied to you about my mother. And my father too. If my father was killed in Doriath, how could I be only fourteen now?"

I had noticed that, but had said naught of it.

"My mother was wounded from the battle, but was healed by another ellon whom she fell in love with. He broke her heart, however, and she jumped off a cliff shortly after birthing me," Taeloth said vehemently. " _Everyone_ in Harlond knew about this, and they never forgot. The ellyn my age mock me and the ellith keep their distance. The others are no better. I'm not allowed to eat with the others in the hall. I can't _be_ with everyone else because of some shitty thing my mother did. It isn't right. It isn't fair."

I sighed a little, pausing slightly before speaking. "You may not know this yet, but I know what you feel, Taeloth. You are right—none of this is fair. Many things are not. But you must wholly embrace yourself for who you are, and do not let others dissuade you from your path."

"My path is to go with you," she said.

"Or elsewhere," I told her. "Your path is not laid out for you; you can choose what you like and things may come out differently from what you think they may be. Your path is a journey—a revolution, and it begins from within. Not from coming with me to Hithaeglir."

Taeloth hesitated. "Can you train me then, Lady Híthriel?"

I smiled sadly. "I do not think I can very much, and now I am obliged to leave."

"Can you not stay a little longer?" she asked.

"No," I told her, "but I will return as soon as I can."

She crossed her little arms, the bow falling off her shoulder. Hastily she grabbed it and secured it upon her back again. "All right, then. I hope you come back soon."

Gil-galad moved to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "She will, Taeloth, don't you worry."

She shook his hand off. "Don't you talk to me like I'm a doltish child." With that she turned on her heel and stalked away.

* * *

The horses plodded down the path to the mountains of Hithaeglir; the crossing there would be long, perhaps two fortnights at the least, and the land was rugged and strange, for none yet dwelt there. But the time mattered not, at least not for the rest of them—I felt more pressed for time than I ever had for a journey as trivial as this, especially upon wondering how long I had left. I had been wondering that for a while now, and pondered if the end would ever come.

By the time a few hours had passed, our formation had been broken and for the terrain had grown increasingly rugged. Saerin drew his horse a little forward to speak.

"I still wonder why you selected me for this," he said, keeping his face expressionless.

"If it doesn't offend you," I began, "I had initially chosen Talethien. He has his niece to care for, however, as she is still but a young elleth. I met her two years back, during Tarnin Tuilë."

"I see," Saerin said. "Oropher, isn't it now? The young prince of the Sindar. I would have thought he wanted to use the invitation for a bit of escape. The majority of the Noldor do not match with the Sindar very well, I would think. The separation of Harlond and Forlond would say as much."

I sighed. "No, they do not. He did tell me his intention to found a new country, however."

"I would think so. It may be beneficial for all of us." He paused briefly, but the horses trudged on. "That was interesting—what you said to Taeloth."

"She has quite a fiery spirit," I said, "but has much to learn."

"But what you spoke of," Saerin pressed. "The path. The journey. The revolution."

I waited.

"Do you really believe in that? If you did, perhaps you would not have come here."

"I am not the same as Taeloth, Saerin," I said. "She is a young child. I am wearied and spent. You know this."

"You just don't recognize it in yourself," he muttered.

My horse stumbled a little on a loose tree root. "It seemed you didn't want to come when I raised the question to you."

Saerin turned a little away. "No."

"That I wonder."

He tried to catch my gaze, but I refused to turn. "Do you remember the time in Himring we went to Dor Daedeloth?"

 _Funny how everyone that went there is dead now except for us two._ "Yes."

"I told you that I wanted to avenge the death of my sister, didn't I?" he mused.

"Yes. Ainessë." I still remembered her from my childhood in Hithlum. As children, we were constantly competing with each other, trying to be the best. She envied me when I had begun training to be a soldier of Hithlum, although I still had to continue the arts of dance and music, as was Eldalië custom. One of my earliest memories of her was when I had done a _grand jeté_ not very well, and turned just as she finished the leap perfectly. _Loser_ , she yelled, and danced away. When we were both still young, we had constantly been at each other's throats, but as time passed, we had become mutual friends, acknowledging our foolishness as children.

"I couldn't."

I lowered my head.

"After five hundred years in Beleriand, I couldn't, and even when Angband fell, I still couldn't." Saerin looked at the missing fingers on his left hand, the ones that he had lost when an arrow had struck them during our escape from the mines. It had been I that was forced to sever through flesh and bone, a decision I had made in mere seconds.

"Is that what you want now?" I said quietly. "Revenge for her?"

"No," he said. "No. Not anymore."

* * *

 _Hithaeglir, 629_

I dragged myself onto the summit of the crag, my arms and shoulders burning with the effort. Tyelpe was already there, scanning the area, as I helped Silivros and Saerin onto the stone. My chest was heaving as I wiped sweat off my brow, realizing with a vexed countenance that this was not, after all, the summit.

"We'll camp here tonight," Tyelpe announced, dropping his things by a dead tree, the only tree upon the place.

No one spoke. The platform was hardly wide enough to hold all of us, and the jagged edges of the mountain threatened to throw us plummeting into the abyss below. Heavy grey clouds loomed as a harbinger of an impending storm, and dusk approached swiftly. Saerin struggled to tie his hair up with the missing fingers and gave in with an exasperated sigh, moving to discard his things by the tree. Silivros sat quietly upon the stone, rummaging in his pack for some food if any. Tyelpe stood upon the brink, looking at the wide extent of the terrain. The rain reached us not because of the rock looming above us, and I watched it fall like drops of molten silver down the crag.

I got up suddenly in the quiet, and began hacking my dagger upon the dead tree, gathering the timber in a pile.

"What are you doing?" Saerin said.

"Making a fire," I told him, not ceasing to hack at the tree.

Tyelpe started. "What do you—"

I halted, and turned to Tyelpe. "We want them to come to us, don't we?"

He nodded slowly, and sat slowly back down. I turned back to the dead tree and finished with the firewood, then dumped them in a pile. I broke the branches into smaller pieces, working incessantly, not thinking about anything in particular.

When the fire was crackling, I leaned back upon the stone and watched the flame and the rain battering the crag behind it, just out of reach. It seemed that the rain longed to come to the fire and smother it, but gratefully there was no wind; if there had been any, we would have burned like the wood.

Silivros offered to take the first watch. No one objected. I lay on the stone on my side, my back to all the others, and stared into the darkness, waiting for sleep to come to me.

I dreamed of a chamber full of doors.

The chamber itself was windowless, but somehow there was a faint, musty light that glowed all about the air. I found myself standing in the center of it, facing a vaguely outlined shade.

" _Choose_ ," the shade hissed, circling around me and to the southern doors behind me. " _Choose, dearest sweetling, choose."_

I could feel the wind and the dried leaves that dragged about the floor in it sweeping around me, entangling around my feet. They seemed to be trying to draw me towards one of the doors, so I followed them to the southern doors where the shade had been. The wind and the leaves became so abstract that the shade _became_ the wind and began to whisper all around me, words that I remembered and knew and some that I didn't.

" _Choose,"_ the leaves howled.

One of the doors was rattling and something was roaring inside of it, screeching, screaming. It was a wonder that it had not yet broken down. I stepped toward it, the wind and the leaves and the shade all together singing a triumphant elegy of joyful lament. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob, silver and cold like a bitterly old steel blade. Old blades had taken many lives, whereas new ones might have the chance to use themselves for a greater purpose.

I opened the door. The rattling stopped, and a light shone through, brilliant and bright as the sun. Slowly I stepped in, and the door began to close behind me, but as it began to do so, the light began to wither away also. I tried to back out but the door slammed shut, encasing me wholly in the color of empty sight.

The leaves formed figures in the shadows. " _I couldn't save you, or anyone. I'm sorry."_

" _You lie."_

A tinge of cerulean tinted the leaves as Findekáno's eyes emerged from them. " _Warriors die valiant deaths."_

" _So valiant. So loyal. You will watch her_ suffer _."_

A vaguely familiar face swam into being. " _I would put a knife in your head if I had one. You killed my family. I've been here for thirty years because of your kind. You deserve this, slut."_

The wind had begun to sing a shrieking song of the past. " _It is true, is it not?"_

" _Yet it still happened. Does that not change anything?"_

" _I suppose you deserved every moment of being a slave, and maybe you loved it too."_

" _Wandering as leaves before the wind. . ."_

" _That cruel place. They took me there, and they—"_

" _Wandering as leaves before the wind. . ."_

" _Why did you do it? Why did you kill the child before it was even born?"_

" _Wandering as leaves before the wind. . ."_

" _Don't leave. Don't you dare."_

" _Wandering as leaves before the wind. . ."_

" _In this living hell."_

I was screaming, and the wind and the leaves and the shade were still singing, screaming around me. My heart was hammering in my chest, my knees shaking, and my breath short as I stumbled backwards and through the wall to the other chamber beside this one.

I found myself crouched on my knees, hair in my eyes and my mouth as I looked up slowly. It almost seemed peaceful compared to the howling terror in the other chamber, and it was not filled with empty despair, but shadow. There was a thin trail of blood trickling on the ground, and my gaze followed it to the dead Easterling impaled by numerous knife wounds. My dagger was still imbedded in his chest, silver and cruel. I watched myself as I breathed in the scent of delicious death, corners of my lips tilting up in the sharpest of smiles, the most hungry, the most desiring.

There was a mirror before me now, and I nearly cried aloud as I saw my eyes, cold and unfeeling in the reflection. They were so utterly savage and monstrous that I hardly believed that they were mine.

" _Don't you want to be free again? To fly in the winds you once did, feeling all the mists shimmering in the air? Tempting, is it not? In this hröa you are no more than a cripple, a whore."_

I slammed my fist into the mirror and it shattered into a thousand pieces, wheeling through the air like flying daggers. The wind and the leaves and the shade returned, screeching as we fell in all directions—down, up, left, right.

In the third chamber there was a wolf. It crouched like a ghost in the shadows, not caring of anything but to satisfy itself. Perhaps that wasn't even its fault; it had been wont to these things, born and bred knowing that, if it ate not, it would be eaten. Life was the way of the survival of the fittest, and that was known to all.

A young maiden stepped through the jungle, her brown hair swept back and tied up, a bow drawn in her hand. She knew something was near, yet she did not know where it was, but the wolf knew. It took another cautious step forward, and smiled not as it pounced, tearing out the girl's throat, drinking in the life, the blood.

The wolf faded away and became Taeloth, daughter of the Sindar, daughter of no one. Her young face was wrought with bitter hatred and anger, and her eyes blazed with a fierce distortion. The wind and the leaves left me and pranced to her, engirdling her in their sinister dance, but the shade stayed with me. I felt a rush of coldness as the shade passed through me, and looked to Taeloth again. The wind raged in a frightening tempest, whipping her silver hair around her face, and when she opened her mouth, the words were mine.

" _How could you do this to me? To all of us? There goes everything. Gone. With one mistake. Funny to feel how that hurts, isn't it? How could you bring this upon all of us?"_

The wind and the leaves and the shade screeched, and the floor fell beneath me into empty space, or it seemed like it, as in fact the wind had pulled us all up to the fifth chamber.

I was standing before Lake Mithrim at the wooden pier, staring at my reflection in the water. I looked the same in the water as I usually did, to my sudden relief; I did not wish to see my eyes as terrible and cruel as they had in the second chamber, yet suddenly I looked deeper into the reflection. My eyes were distant and melancholy, as if constantly dwelling in the shadows of the past, and somehow not any better than I had been in the second chamber.

There was no wind, no leaves, no shade. Only myself.

" _Did you fight in the War of Wrath?"_

" _No. Only survived it."_

In the sixth chamber I saw myself as a child, grinning excitedly as Ñolofinwë said Rochallor would let me ride him around the field. I had dropped everything that I had been holding and run to my chambers to change into riding clothes. Rochallor and I had run around the field for five rounds before I grew tired and nearly collapsed off giddily. But then I remembered the next day the ellyn I had been training with resented me for the privilege, and I never asked to ride Rochallor again.

The next was in Menegroth, talking with Artanis and Melyanna. There I had learned many things from them, of lore and of wisdom, not only my training. I remembered when they had seen the anger and the sorrow flourishing through me when I had come to them beseeching guidance, and looked upon me with the kindness to teach and to mentor and to help.

The eighth was my chambers in Himring. A warm fire glowed in the hearth, and Mae was sprawled on the couch next to me as I read a book. For a long that night we had spoken of the plans for the Union and the new hope that had been brought to the people from this. He was exhausted from all the work, but felt more different than he ever had before. Perhaps with this his fears could be conquered, and he could forsake what he thought could not be broken.

Then the fire and the hearth and Mae vanished before my eyes, and I passed into the ninth chamber. There was a wooden table, and on top of it a solitary candle. I walked towards the light, and peered at it curiously, suddenly realizing that the table was filled with candles, but only one of them was alight. The small fire flickered, but what good could it do alone? The chamber was still cold. I lifted a hand to it, feeling the bonds of energy pulsing around, and spread the fire to all of the candles. It was truly a marvellous sight—like the ripple of water when a stone is thrown in a lake. Now the chamber was dancing with candlelight, a million beacons that had not been alight before. I smiled at it, and was glad that it was genuine.

Sometime later the dream faded away, and when I opened my eyes the fire had died and it was morning.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Quellë._ Autumn/fading. 54 days and runs from about the end of September to the latter part of November. Alternative Quenya name — Lasse-lanta, or 'Leaf-fall' (S. Firith and Narbeleth).  


 _Yávië._ Waning of Summer and transition into Autumn (S. Iavas). 54 days long and begins around the start of August and ends near the latter part of September.

 _Fëa._ Spirit/soul, plural _fëar_.

* * *

 _A/n:_

 _Sorry for the obnoxiously slow update. Life has been hectic :(_

 _Thank you for being so patient and reading!_


	5. Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV

* * *

The morning was cold even for my expiring hröa; I found myself wishing that the fire had lasted the night as my numbing fingers fumbled on the icy rock. By morning, the rain had ceased to fall, but the rock was still slippery from it, and we found ourselves periodically losing our footing, every time generating a newfound level of dread and dismay. Overhead the clouds loomed silver, and all was silent save the presence of our energies.

Tyelpe had planned on reaching the overlooking point of the mountain by midday so we could have a full view of where we were going, and it seemed now that we were making good time, unlike last night. When we had reached a stopping point, I hauled myself up and rubbed my hands, wondering how I could sweat and be so cold at the same time.

I took out the flask and tipped the draft into my mouth as Silivros sipped at some of his water. Grimacing at the bitterness in my mouth, I put my hands on my hips and felt the energies around us—there was something. . .something else festering in the mountains. I knew it so.

I turned to Tyelpe. "With the fire and all, they should have seen us by now."

Saerin stepped forward. "No doubt this is a trap."

"Either that, or they are merely blind. Yes, Saerin, evidently this is a trap," Tyelpe said. "Yet these mountains are vast, and perhaps they may be someplace else."

"The fire was reasonably small," Saerin noted, "and there was rain."

"Or perhaps there is no one," Silivros said quietly.

I sighed. "I know what you mean to say, Silivros, but that is not it."

Tyelpe glanced up to the looming cliffs. "The sooner we get there, the sooner we learn the answer." With that he began to make his way upward again.

Wordlessly, I joined him as Saerin and Silivros followed.

We reached the eyrie right before sundown, barely having a clear view of the terrain before twilight began to emerge.

"We'll be under cover of darkness, leastways," Saerin said at my irked expression.

"Hurry now, before the darkness comes." Yet suddenly I felt something shift in the energies around us, and my ears twitched. "Tyelpe, Silivros," I said, signaling them and lowering my voice as I took another mouthful of the draft as if that would sharpen my senses.

"What is it?" Tyelpe questioned, his eyes intent.

"I feel. . .something," I said, and let my senses guide me. I made my way down a jagged slope, keeping close to the ground like a wolf stalking its prey. They followed me where I stepped until we reached a certain point, and they too, could hear and feel the energies pulsing around.

I motioned for them to crouch down as we neared a precipice. The sound of a throng of a host was distinctly audible, and there was the distinguishable tattoo of drums; all around, the energies were shifting with the fëar of many. A crow flitted into the air to perch atop a dead tree and I jerked to a side in trepidation, a small rock falling off the precipice. The wind was whipping my hair into my face, as if warning me to not look, and the rock was rough beneath my calloused fingers. All of us bent further down, then ever so slowly, we dared glance over the edge.

The host of orcs streamed around the dried riverbed like a swarm of flies but armed with a forest of iron spears. A captain of them was shouting orders to a group training in an orderly array, marching forward and drawing their weapons in unison, and the rumble of their marches shook the earth in a daunting procession as if Tulkas himself was come. A cluster of tents lined the mountainside, but before them were not orcs, but Atani who overlooked the drills. They were in all likelihood Easterlings—or at least the remnants of them from the First Age, as was with the orcs.

I glanced at my companions, drenched in cold sweat, then back to the host gathered a few hundred feet below us. There were a few hundred of them, not too many, and if I had been as powerful as I was before the scar, I could have destroyed them from above. Perhaps I still could, if shifting into my winged form did not hurt so much, but I could bear a little pain.

Yet I knew that that was impossible, and the sudden vigor vanished as quickly as it had come. Nonetheless, if I could not destroy them by force, I knew what else I could do.

I turned to Saerin. "It looks like cover of darkness is a good plan."

Silivros looked at me, alarmed. "What do you mean to say."

"We slaughter them during the night."

"Hith, that is insane," Tyelpe said. "We are four people; they are a few hundred. One wrong move and we're dead. In fact, I see no possible way to kill them all at once in the night."

"Then we do it a few at a time."

"That will never do anything and you know it." Tyelpe was giving me his cold, hard stare. "What is wrong with you? You know all this. It is impossible."

 _I should have never asked them to come with me._ "Yes, I know."

"The most we can do is return to Mithlond and bring more with us," Tyelpe said, already turning back to the other side. "We can do nothing about this at the moment."

Silivros spoke quietly. "You're still angry."

I met his eyes. "We cannot return empty-handed. During the night, I will go down and bring one back here to question, so we at least have some information."

"And if you do not return?" Tyelpe said.

"Then leave me. I'm as good as dead, anyhow. It won't make any difference. Go back to Mithlond and bring back your host and avenge the slain. You deserve that."

Tyelpe turned away, and Silivros would not look at me.

Saerin had been staring in dismay at the army of orcs below but now he peeled his gaze away unwillingly. "That is the best we can do, I agree."

"Very well then," Tyelpe said, his back to me and his arms crossed. "If that is your will."

"It well may be—"

I whipped my leg out, trying to shove him away, but too slow. Saerin cried out and suddenly there was a shaft protruding out of his thigh, blood spurting onto the rocks before him. He stumbled and would have fallen off the precipice if Silivros had not seized his arm and dragged him away from the edge.

My eyes darted to the Easterling scout, crossbow drawn tight with another arrow ready to fire. Tyelpe unsheathed his sword, but I was already leaping, although weaponless. I barrelled the Easterling to the ground, the arrow spiraling off course, and we tumbled down a few dozen feet, dangerously close to the edge, but as I landed upon my feet the Easterling slipped off the rock. I sprang forward and grasped his arm, wrenching him back onto the rock, and the Easterling reacted surprisingly quickly, drawing his sword and thrusting it at me. I didn't bother fetching my daggers as I ducked under the blade and knocked it over the precipice with a deft strike to the wrist.

The point of my dagger was tucked under his chin before he hardly even knew it.

"Aren't we so lucky to have you?" I drawled, a fell, ruthless whisper in his ear. "Now, sweetling, tell me what you know, and it might save you some blood."

It felt good to have such power flowing within me again.

* * *

The Easterling's eyes were dilated with terror as the point of my dagger drew blood and Tyelpe emerged from the labyrinth of rocks above, his sword drawn and his expression just as terrified as the Easterling's. I didn't need to look at Tyelpe to know such, and kept my eyes on the Easterling, who had hastily regained his composure.

"Why are you here?" I demanded, my steely eyes threatening a worse bane.

The Easterling somehow found the courage to speak. "Same as you, little slut. Blood and revenge. My people have stayed in the shadows for too long. It is time we claim what is righteously ours."

My words were sharp as steel. "Righteously yours?"

He laughed haughtily. "Yes, little slut. Too long have we been thrust aside, had our lands plundered by your people. We do not forget what you have done to us—"

"I do not forget the Nirnaeth Arnoediad." _Or what you did to Aerin and Finduilas and Maedhros._ The words cut deeper than my dagger upon his throat. "Who led you to this, Balchoth?"

"The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders," the Easterling drawled. "He is the great leader of our people. No other can be a match for him, for so great is his power that—"

"I did not come here for flattery. Who, really, is behind this?" I said.

"We act alone." The Easterling bared his crooked teeth at me. "There is no honor in succumbing to another power, little slut."

"Call me that one more time and I will gladly wrench your pretty tongue out and shove it down your throat."

The sound the Easterling made was a half-choke, half-laugh. "But you wouldn't want that, would you?"

"Would I not?" I said softly.

A rock skidded down the crag. "Touch my father and I'll kill you."

I turned to find a boy approaching me, pointing a crossbow too large for him to my heart. He would have been about fourteen, and a small child for that age; his hands shook uncontrollably as he balanced the crossbow, his eyes terrified and indecisive. If anything, he looked somewhat like Túrin son of Húrin, that I had once failed to protect. Tyelpe held his sword aloft and took an uncertain step forward.

"I'll let him go if you just tell me one thing," I said to the boy, undaunted by the crossbow. "Whose orders are you acting under?"

"The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders," the boy breathed.

I turned to the scout, the boy's father. "I know you lie. I know you know more than you say. You are under Sauron's command, are you not?"

"No," the Easterling growled. "That is false. He destroyed our people, forced us to the worst places possible. I may not have lived long enough to remember, but every night, we tell each other the stories of how our people were driven to ruin. You are the one that is wrong, admit it, little slut."

My eyes flicked to the boy. "Do you have anything else to add?"

"No," the boy whispered.

"That's a pity," I said softly, and dragged my dagger across the Easterling's throat.

The boy screamed as the blood spurted from his father's throat, eyes lolling back. I let his body fall to the stone, staining it scarlet, and he convulsed for a few moments, choking on his own blood, before skidding off the cliff.

I turned to the boy. "Go home now, child. Your return is message enough."

The boy backed away, bent down quickly to pick up the crossbow, then scrambled down a different direction.

I wiped the blood off the dagger, sheathed the blade, stepped down the rock, and walked past Tyelpe. He was staring at me in horror, and seized my arm as I tried to pass.

"Why did you do that?" Tyelpe hissed, his eyes flashing with fury.

"They deserve no more."

"What has become of you?" he said in disbelief. "You know they do not hold the faults of their ancestors."

I barked a sharp laugh. "Now _you_ say that."

He made no reply.

I continued on. "They _believe_ in what their ancestors did. They think what they did was right. They think what they did in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad was right. They think what they did to Nargothrond was right. Do you remember what happened to Aerin? To Finduilas? They believe in the horrors of what they did."

"You don't know that," Tyelpe said.

I gave him a long, fierce look. "I'm going to check on Saerin."

* * *

The wound wasn't as bad as it could have been. The arrow had broken off when Saerin had stumbled, making it more painful than it should have, but it had not been poisoned nor had it left any splinters. Silivros was tending to the wound when Tyelpe and I arrived, icy looks upon our faces.

"Finish binding it quickly," I said. "It would be best we move to a more secure area."

Silivros gave a sharp nod and turned back to his work.

Saerin looked up at me, gritting his teeth as Silivros tightened the binding. "Dead?"

I met his eyes, my own unfeeling. "Yes."

Next to me, Tyelpe's finger twitched.

That night, I found it difficult to sleep, and resorted to sitting and watching the pale glitter of the stars above. Saerin was awake also, for he had taken a fever from the wound and decided to make use of himself by taking the night watch. He had propped himself up on a slanting rock and was watching the skies as I was. I was surprised the other two could sleep, particularly Tyelpe.

"If there is ever a need, you should leave me. There would be no use to drag me along with you," Saerin said.

"What kind of doltish remark is that?" I demanded.

"A true one. I'll only delay your course down the mountain with this lame leg," he told me. "You need to make it back in time to Mithlond."

"Getting there faster won't do much," I said.

"This mission is worth more than my life, Híthriel."

I turned sharply to him. "Don't you _dare_ say that, Saerin. All of us are making it back there. This is only a quarter as dangerous as anything we've ever done."

"But only one of us need to make it back alive."

"Why are you saying this?" I breathed.

His eyes seemed to glitter in the night. "You know why."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Hröa._ Body, plural _hröar._

 _Fëa._ Soul/spirit, plural _fëar._

 _Balchoth._ A generic term for disliked peoples, including the Orcs.

* * *

 _A/n:_

 _I'm just wondering what you all think_ — _do you feel this story (including the prequel) is character-driven or a plot-driven?_

 _Thank you for all the support!_

\- Elenrith


	6. Chapter V

CHAPTER V

* * *

— _Mithlond—_

"Your Grace," I said as I entered the chamber.

Gil-galad stood in surprise, setting his pen down and striding over to Tyelpe and I. "You've returned." There was no fault to his astonishment; it had been many years since we had come to Mithlond. His crown was set upon the corner of his cluttered desk atop a few papers, and I saw that today he wore a shade of cerulean that matched the color of his eyes.

"I have," I returned, "but not with victory."

"Where is Saerin? And Silivros?"

"Alive," I said. "Your Grace, if I may address the situation at hand—beyond Hithaeglir, the Easterlings are gathering, with troops of orcs at their feet. They have regrouped over the years after the drowning, it would seem."

I detected a faint flicker of something in his eyes. "How many?" he asked.

"Little and easily crushed," I told him. "Half a thousand, from what we saw. They _say_ they are led by one whom they call 'The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders'."

Gil-galad considered this carefully. "What are you implying?"

"They do not name this 'Grand Chieftain'. They speak nothing of him but praise. What is the likelihood of this 'Grand Chieftain' being an actual person?" I said. "The orcs have never been anything more than phantoms of Eldalië, gnarled, twisted beings that have nothing more to them than a heart of stone. They could have never gathered forces in this orderly manner."

Tyelpe was stiff behind me. He remembered what had happened in Nargothrond in 321 of the First Age, when he was sent with me to bring my mother back to Himring, and no doubt remembered the words she had said to him with her failing breath. _I wish. . .I wish I could have given you a happier life._ Then turning to Tyelpe— _Promise me. . .promise me you'll take good care of her. Take care of your own well-being too. . .you're a good friend to her._

Gil-galad spoke. "But the Easterlings?"

It took me a moment to reply. "Yes. It is possible that they could have done this alone. . ." I regained myself again. "The Easterlings—their way of thinking is _wrong_. They speak of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad as if it was nothing. I know, Artanáro, you are still too young to remember that, but I do. I remember. The Union was the one beacon in my life and the Easterlings destroyed that. I cannot forgive them for that."

"She killed a child's father," Tyelpe said.

Gil-galad had turned away so I could not see his face. I said nothing, and neither did Tyelpe. Then at last, Gil-galad spoke again. "When you say alive, how alive are they?"

I knew he meant Saerin and Silivros. "Saerin took an arrow to the leg."

He still did not turn, so I continued with what was needed to be done.

"We need more people for this," I said. "It is necessary to conquer this building army before they grow any more. Therefore I ask Your Grace to permit more to be sent to Hithaeglir to deal with this little skirmish."

"So you think Sauron organized this?" Gil-galad said.

I gritted my teeth. "Yes."

"Why are you so intent on destroying all that he has ever done?"

"Why are _you_ not?" I demanded, suddenly angry. "He _slaughtered_ everyone and everything that you have ever loved, and left you with nothing but an empty heart."

"That is true," he said softly, "but you are more angry than most."

"I have the right to. I should have the right to have the desire to destroy the terrible cruelty that he has wrought upon us, after everything. We all have the right. You don't _understand_ , Artanáro; you weren't in Angband, you didn't feel everything as it did, you aren't his fucking—" I stopped suddenly.

"What?" Gil-galad said quietly. "What are you?"

I met his cerulean eyes slowly, the answer in my eyes before I said them. "He fucked my mother and made me his damned bastard child."

He gave me a subtle nod. "I suspected as much."

I wanted to scream, for the sake of it and for the release it might well bring.

Gil-galad inhaled a sharp breath. "So it is then. You may lead the host to Hithaeglir."

I looked at him dully. "Because of who I am?"

"No," he said, and nothing more. And again, I thought of how much his eyes resembled Finno's. But he was dead now, and that didn't matter at all.

* * *

— _A few fortnights later—_

I stopped before my door, realizing abruptly that there was something between my door and I that hindered me from entering my chambers. I looked up wearily to find Naergon standing before me, his sword slung upon his back and his one arm hanging awkwardly down his side.

"If you have come for food, take it and leave," I said.

There was the odd mixture of confusion and indifference in his expression, as if thinking, _why the hell would you say that?_

"Did I not promise you food the last time you opened your mouth in front of me? That is what I am referring to, if you have forgotten. I figured it would be the only thing that would drive you here, unless you are in the temper to pick a fight. I have not the life in me to engage in such an act at the moment, therefore I would say that you have already won. Unless you would prefer to engage in such an act, I would gladly let you slit my throat. Would you like that?"

Somehow he ignored all of that. "I have a request for you, Lady Híthriel," he said softly.

"Oh? Do say."

"You have summoned a host," Naergon said.

I waited.

"It would be in my favor to join this host to Hithaeglir," he continued, his sentence ending uncomfortably as if there was more to say. Yet he left there words unsaid, and looked to me for a response.

I gave him a sharp nod, stepping past him to open my door. "I will always accept volunteers. Go to Tyelperinquar for the commands."

"You have summoned it, but you do not lead it." The words were more of a statement than a question.

I halted, then turned. "I doubt anyone would follow me."

* * *

— _Quellë—_

I watched as the leaves swirled around the ground in the wind of Quellë, falling from the trees, their boughs, the sky above. I remembered in Nargothrond, the forest was so dense that, when it was Quellë, sometimes the leaves would fall like snow as the wind blew steadily and the ground would be covered in a foliage of gold. There was so much of the bright, beautiful color that I was awed and deemed it near impossible, until I saw it for myself.

A young elleth stood before me, her hands on her hips and silver hair fluttering in the wind. Her eyes were stormy and passionate, as if determined to do something, and the emotions in them startled me, for I had not seen so much life in one for long.

"Oh," she said at last. "You don't remember me."

"Contrary to your belief, I do remember you, Lady Taeloth," I said, dipping my head. "Greetings, and well met."

"Ah," Taeloth said, evidently satisfied that I had recalled her name. "Well met, Lady Híthriel. I have a. . .proposition to present to you."

I waited for her to continue. The last time I had seen her she was a mere child of fourteen, but since then many moons had passed and she was an elleth half-grown. I remembered how she had come running to us, demanding to come with us to Hithaeglir with that too large bow slung upon her shoulder. Now the bow would but just the right size for her, I would think. The thought made me sad; I thought of all the little children that had grown up, losing who I had known them to be, and become not so little anymore.

Taeloth sucked in a breath, something flashing in her eyes. "I'm coming with you—with the host. To Hithaeglir."

I sighed, thinking of how eager I too was as a child. _I cannot ruin her just as I had been_. _I cannot make the same mistakes. I told myself I would not forget, and for a reason._ "Do you know what it was like to be in Angband?"

Taeloth looked aptly away from the pale scar upon my right eye. I had never said a word of it to her before, yet there was no need.

"I found myself. . .frightening," I said. "I had never screamed so loud before, felt so angry, felt so _insane_. It's not what you think it is, Taeloth."

"I don't plan on—"

"I don't expect you do." _Do you think I did?_

She looked down.

"You're an elleth half-grown now," I told her. "You decide what you want to do."

It was a moment before she spoke again, stumbling on her words. "I-I think I will see you with the rest of the host." She glanced up then, and behind. "Good morrow, Lady Híthriel." With no more she brushed past me and vanished in the maze of Mithlond's cloisters.

* * *

— _Hithaeglir—_

The night was quiet save for the crackling of the fire. About a fortnight before Talethien had left our host to explore the lands in the east, but Taeloth had stayed with those on the mission, and now I watched her as she ate her bread with small, controlled bites, tearing them apart before carefully nibbling on them. We sat in a ring by the fire—Taeloth, Saerin, Tyelpe, Silivros, Naergon, and I, quietly tearing away pieces of bread. Others were in their rings by their own fires, conversing lightly with each other, yet all sensing the impending danger around them. Some spoke of shadows that lurked in the forests near, but upon stretching the consciousness of my fëa out to it, I could sense nothing. People were always fearing what they did not know—that I knew well enough for myself.

Taeloth looked uncomfortable to suddenly be accepted in a company of prickly tired 'elders' still haunted by the devastation of the Wars of Beleriand even six hundred years after they had ended, although she attempted very well to act as we did. I caught her imitating Saerin's positions at times to blend in with us more easily, but even then the mien of innocence upon her face was prominent upon her. I wondered if I should have let her come with us, and told myself to shut my trap about the subject; it would do no good to tell her to return to Mithlond now. An escort party would be necessary to sacrifice, and she would be absolutely unwilling to do so upon the necessity.

She was imitating Naergon's hunched position at the moment, crossing her legs in the most odd manner possible, then abruptly decided not to. She turned to Saerin next to her. "You must know many stories as a loremaster," she said.

"I may," Saerin said, "but they may not be very intriguing to you."

"Tell us one," Taeloth begged. "It is too quiet here."

The ghost of a smile flitted upon Saerin's face. "All right then." He thought for a moment, then commenced to speak again.

"Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a cottage by the sea alone with her mother. At times she would stand by the sea-strand and gaze into the horizon, wondering what could be so far away and so distant that her mother had lost and loved so dearly. Once her mother carved her name on a stone so smooth it was like a mirror, telling her that she must not forget it. But it came to pass one day that—"

"Saerin," I interrupted. "A different story, if you please."

He met my eyes and gave me a brief nod. "As you wish, my lady."

The words were unsaid, but I knew what he was telling me. _Look at what you were before, and look at what you have become. Is this who you are? Is this who you want to be?_ I became lost in thought as he began to tell another story, one more fitting for Taeloth—one of noble kings and courtly queens, of handsome princes and merry princesses. A child should not know such tales, should not be burdened with such things.

I found Taeloth watching me out of the corner of her eye as Saerin spoke. I pretended not to notice and stared into the fire, as if I would find some answer there. _Cry tears of joy and they'll be mistaken for sorrow._ I had not let myself do so since we had left the ruins of Beleriand, and was glad for it.

When Saerin had finished the tale, most went promptly to sleep. I lay upon my cloak and stared up at the sky, not at all intending to sleep. For a moment I wished I could have been back in Himring, lying upon one of the grassy hills and counting the stars; I only wanted comfort, a warm fire, and a light snow falling out the window…But the night was failing, and the earth was cold with the perfume of death.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Quellë._ (Q) Autumn/fading. 54 days and runs from about the end of September to the latter part of November. Alternative Quenya name — Lasse-lanta, or 'Leaf-fall' (S. Firith and Narbeleth).

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Fëa._ (Q) Spirit, soul, plural _fëar_.


	7. Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI

* * *

The sky looked as if it had been painted with blood, the hue fading from one deep and dark to a fierce red. It seemed for the time that the only colors were gold and red and black, and there would be no other colors thereafter. Against the flaxen sun, the mountains were lumps of ebony shadow and the clouds daunting like an admonition, yet I only granted the red glare a grim look. We would be losing the light soon.

"I will go to scout ahead," I said to Tyelpe, who gave me a sharp nod.

Taeloth stepped her way forward. "Two people better than one." She turned to Tyelpe. "Do I have your leave, my lord?"

"Go as you will," Tyelpe said, turning away to the red land.

The rest of the host began to settle to camp for the night as I picked my way up the rocks, Taeloth following. At the summit we could see that there was a crimson lake, or at least it seemed to be that color. The eventide made it hard to tell. A strong gale blew along the shoreline, ruffling the waters and tousling Taeloth's silver hair.

"You best tie that up, if you want to stay alive," I told her, thinking of a certain person. My own hair was bound tightly in a bun.

"It's cold," Taeloth murmured, hugging her cloak tighter around herself.

"It's always cold here," I said, staring at the red water. "It'll be colder in the night."

She was silent then, and followed my eyes to stare at the horizon. "It reminds you of something, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"The lake," she said. "I can see that you're thinking of something."

"I wasn't thinking of anything in particular," I told her.

"But the lake—it reminds you of something, doesn't it?" she pressed.

Perhaps it could have been Lake Helevorn, but _red glass_ instead of _black glass_ in this gloaming. I closed my eyes and felt the wind upon my face. "I suppose."

"Why do you never talk about it?" Taeloth asked. "I feel like you have so much to tell, but you'll never say it."

I smiled sadly at the child before me. "Some things are not meant to be told, Taeloth."

"I'd like to know," she said, "and I think it would be good for you to say."

The puffs of dark cloud were moving to cover the waning sun. "What would you like to know?"

"Anything—everything," Taeloth said, ecstatic that I had agreed.

"I won't remember unless you ask something more specific," I told her.

She thought for a moment. "Why are you so insistent on this mission succeeding? Lord Tyelpe said that it had something to do with your past."

"I think anyone would want this mission to succeed, Taeloth."

"Don't you talk to me like I'm some stupid _child_ ," Taeloth said suddenly, indignation rising in her voice. It was then I realized suddenly that she was me as I was. I could see my younger self reflected in her in every way—that rapturous determination, that fervent passion, that naïve zeal. Always I had tried to prove myself to the others that thought themselves higher than I, yet also all others. Before, I had thought training would bring me some peace to this imbalance, but now I knew. Training could do me no use now.

I didn't answer her, and sipped some of the draft out of my flask almost absently. I would have to make more soon, to be safe.

"What is that?" Taeloth said, her voice still stiff with ire. "You always drink out of that flask. I know it's not water."

I concealed the flask in my cloak. "Is it necessary to know every detail of my life, Lady Taeloth?"

Her eyes flashed. "You're not telling me because you think I'm still a child! Naergon knows, doesn't he? And Lord Tyelperinquar, too, I would think. Why can't I know?"

"They have found the answer to that in some of the most unpleasant ways possible," I said. "I do not believe Lord Naergon knows. I am not mocking you, Taeloth. You can calm yourself."

The words only seemed to make her more fervent. "I wish everyone would stop talking to me that way!" she exclaimed indignantly. "No one trusts me enough to tell me anything!"

"It's not you," I told her.

"Is it you, then, Lady Híthriel? Why must you be so closed off from me? All I wished for was someone I could talk to, that I could be friends with, but you will tell me nothing."

"Taeloth, I'm sorry if you think that it is that way, but—"

" _Sorry, but_ ," she mocked. "Valar damn this all." With that she stomped off, muttering.

I sighed and gazed back at the scarlet waters. It was odd how I could still feel the vibrations of her anger in the bonds of energy twisting through the air; it had been long since I felt the connection of another's fëa in such a fashion. Generally I would have to feel for that ósanwë within myself, but just now I had not tried at all to reach out to Taeloth's fëa. Perhaps we were really so similar that the fëar simply connected on instinct.

The lake really did look like Helevorn—a tall, daunting mountain stood on the other side, surrounded by smaller peaks as it had been in Thargelion. Thinking of it made a sudden nostalgia wash over me, and I closed my eyes as if imagining could bring deceased memory back to life. I breathed in the wind's crisp scent, then suddenly realized that Taeloth was nowhere near. My eyes snapped open and I hastily extended my own tendrils of ósanwë around the lake. I sought any presence of her fëa nearby as the sun was retreating down into the west, the streaks of red withering to black, and found none.

Shit, _shit._ I scanned the clearing with my eyes now, thinking that my ósanwë must have erred; much of it had been stifled ever since the scar…but still, nothing. We hadn't been very far from the camp, perhaps she had gone back. I began picking my way back down the rocks the way we had come.

Saerin was sitting upon a rock at the head of the camp when I came, sharpening his sword. He looked up abruptly when I approached, and set his blade aside. "Hith," he said.

"Have you seen Taeloth?" I demanded.

"Yes, she just came by this way," Saerin told me. "She went back to her tent."

I breathed a sigh of relief, although I did not show it. "Thank you for telling me." I made to leave, but he stopped me.

"Are you all right, Hith?" he asked.

I paused, as if taken aback. "Yes, I'm all right. Good evening to you, Lord Saerin." With that I turned and left.

That night I slept outside the tents before the dying fire, watching as the waning flames sputtered to embers then to ash. I dreamt of the howling of wolves and shadows in the gloaming, and remembered what Maeglin had said to me in Gondolin: _And sometimes it is told that the wolves howl when they hurt, when one of their own breathes their last. What say you to that, my lady? Do you howl?_

 _Perchance on the nights when the moon has waxed full with lament,_ I had said. _The bane is ever crippling_.

Yes, indirectly I had told him; indirectly I had told them all.

* * *

I awoke to Silivros shaking me by the shoulder frantically. The night was still deep, and I could scarcely see the glint of his silver eyes in the darkness.

"What is it?" I hissed.

His eyes were wild with alarm. "We've tracked—"

Something in the air seemed to penetrate the ósanwë I knew so well, thrumming through the bonds of energy to me. My ears twitched, and I _saw_ the bowman that stood upon the brink of the hill in my mind. I lunged forward, dragging Silivros down as a black arrow whistled through the air, and hit the grass with a dull _thunk_.

"The bowman's on the ridge," I said, hauling him to his feet. "Go. Wake Tyelpe, and blow that ridiculous horn, for the Valar's sake."

I felt around the energies in the air to feel where the Easterlings concentrated their attack, and found that they were approaching from all sides, with spears pointed in. It seemed that not many others were aware of the attack, for the camp was still silent. If we awoke quietly, then perhaps we could surprise the Easterlings in their own little ambush, but the thought vanished as the horn suddenly sounded through the camp, piercing the silence of the night. I sidled to the corner of the camp, seeking an Easterling to kill as the horn continued to blare—three long, deep blares that sounded like a mourning animal. Then at last, an Easterling sprang at me, striking to kill.

It was then a thirsty smile curved onto my lips and the terrible furore erupted from me. Within an instant my daggers were in my hands, and the Easterling's body was falling, falling to the ground, dead.

It had been long since I was drunk on blood.

No, they did not expect an _elleth_ to be a warrior, however much of a lie those words were. Or whatever it was they called us—women, girls, females. They did not expect me to be the one to seize them by the hair and slit their throats. Too petty, was I?

The others had arisen now, but not before some of them were slain. Easterlings had begun to swarm into the camp now—they had been ever since the horn had sounded, so that some had scarcely any time before an arrow or two struck them in the back or a knife was at their throat.

I saw Saerin stumble as he parried blades with an Easterling shoving him into the ashes of a fire, and spun upon my feet, dancing to this song of death. With my dagger I thrust the Easterling backwards and drove the point into his chest until it stuck out on the other side, then tore it out, letting the body thump to the ground.

I spun instantly over to Saerin. "Where's Taeloth?"

"I. . .I don't—"

"Go find her. Now." I stole a glance backwards. "When I finish dealing with the ones here I will find you. _Go!_ "

Saerin's eyes widened suddenly, and without another thought, my dagger had embedded itself in the chest of the dying man behind me. I wiped the drops of blood off my face, only managing to smear them.

"No time," Saerin said softly in repentance. He met my eyes then, and I felt a sudden twinge of something in my chest as I beheld the sentiment in his amethyst eyes, as if regretting all that we had done. _Angband. We both remembered the warm darkness—_

"I'm sorry," he told me, and suddenly he too was gone.

 _Forget it, abandon it,_ I thought. _Don't think about it, don't think about it._ Everywhere people were wounding each other, killing each other, and sometimes they all seemed so alike that all there was in the night were falling shadows. In the clearing there were three Eldalië against eight. One managed to wound an Easterling, yet not long after he himself was impaled by the spike of a mace. The other two were fighting madly now, hissing and growling like wolves as they struck, but what would they do against eight? An Easterling died, but soon after the two Eldalië were dead too, and they trampled over their limp bodies with hardly another thought. What savages we had become. Kinslayers. And I started this, didn't I?

Funny how late it was I realized this. I laughed drunkenly. _Too late, too late._ Hefting my daggers, I strode forward, leaving death in my wake. The confidence that quelled in their eyes replaced by fear drove me onward, encouraging me until it became something terrifying to behold. It was a dance, a lilting one accompanied by the sinister dying cries as music. The dance was _mine_ , and only _mine_ , because the others _quailed_ before me, not knowing the song; all I could think of was nothing—nothing! The song drove me forward like liquor, and nothing else.

Time seemed to slow as I spotted my foe's vulnerability and struck there, precise and satisfying. Then I had to move on to the next and the next and the next because I could have been faster, more precise in my attack. It would never be flawless enough, so there had to be more, more, _more_ , until I was absolutely perfect _._ I felt eerily calm and powerful as they shrunk before me with terrified eyes, and hardly felt the barbed mace that struck my shoulder. I laughed at the man's audacity and kicked the mace out of his two-handed grip, splitting his throat open. The scarlet came spilling down his chest like a waterfall, and I promptly turned to the next.

 _Am I still myself? I wonder what I have evolved into through blood and battle and war. Would I have done this before?_ I didn't feel the wound that the mace had made even though I distantly registered the blood seeping down my shoulder. There was no place for fear in my mind in battle; the next always died easier than the previous, and all that mattered was the gorgeous slaughter around me. They were falling and crying and dying but I was fighting and dancing and flying—why should I be afraid?

Laugh in the face of death and you will not be afraid. That is what I have learned.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ósanwë._ (Q) Interchange of thought.

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit.

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body.

 _Elleth_. (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._


	8. Chapter VII

CHAPTER VII

* * *

Still the deaths went on.

I remembered my first battle—the Dagor Aglareb. Thirsty with the bitter need of revenge, I had slaughtered all I could, fighting as an untamable wolf. But then I had been _afraid,_ afraid of being so close to Dor Daedeloth, afraid to fight for myself, afraid of it all. After the Dagor Aglareb I had realized the feverish savageness I had succumbed to during the battle and vomited all over the field. Yet now…it was appalling to think of how it was almost normal now, something I was used to.

 _Let them kill me, if they can._ A heartless laugh escaped my lips. I was the daughter of Sauron and of fire and blood, a cripple and the only one to have survived so far. Let them try, let them try!

Amidst all the killing and the rushes of power, a sudden jolt broke my dance—my hröa contorted, the poison of the scar tearing through flesh and bone. My daggers trembled in my hands and suddenly the song of slaughter vanished, fear rushing back into my eyes. The furore broke away and I stumbled, falling to my knees. Out of the corner of my vision I saw a mace rise and fall, and with a sudden coldness felt the sweat trickling down my brow. A boot trampled the already trampled grass before me, and I could see each individual blade, bent and crooked and broken. Another spasm shook my body, and unwanted tears stung my eyes. _No. If there was any other way I would die, I gladly welcomed it, but like this, a cripple—no._ Furiously I gritted my teeth and tightened my fists, realizing that my daggers had fallen from my hands.

It had only been mere seconds before I hurled myself at the man with the mace, ducking under the swing of the spike and striking him full in the teeth. Another tremor in the scar. No time, no time for the draft, the draft, the ridiculous draft. I had been a fool to forget of this, and a fool had treacherous consequences. The man hissed, spitting blood and splintered teeth on the dead grass, and hefted the dreaded mace for the last blow.

I watched powerlessly and at the mercy of the ungolócë's poison as the mace rose and began to descend upon me. Everything seemed to move slowly, so slowly. Behind the man with the mace, a boy no more than fifteen was shouting, his spear flying somewhere out of sight, then a moment later a sword stuck through the right side of his face and tore flesh and bone away as it was wrenched out. Someone else was yelling, and another crying out in pain. I clenched my hands into fists, wondering how hideous I would look with half a head cracked open and red stuff coming out of it. The eyes of the man with the mace was filled with hatred and terror and determinedness, and they were brown, like Moryo's; we were right by Lake Helevorn, after all…

Dimly I was aware of Naergon leaping forward, his sword shining bright in his hand. It was odd; the sword looked like Findekáno's, and Findekáno had died before me, just as so many others had. Then the man with the mace was wrenched backwards, a silver blade protruding out of his ribs, the point scarlet and glistening. Instead of striking my face, the spiked mace gave a glancing blow to the arm and I was hurled to the ground.

Naergon seized my good arm and dragged me away from the apex of the carnage somehow with only one hand until I somehow regained the strength in my legs, limping across the dead bodies as he cut the way through it all. When at last we had broken away from the worst, I found that my face was scarlet with the blood that I had been coughing out, and realized I was bent upon the ground, retching blood out of my mouth.

"Taeloth," I rasped between coughs. "Where is she?"

I couldn't hear what Naergon was saying; my ears were clogged, but he was mouthing something.

" _Taeloth._ The girl," I said again hoarsely, as if that could do something of use.

I tried to decipher what his words were to no avail, and instead noticed the vibrant color of his amber eyes before the ground suddenly came rushing to me, all turning to darkness.

* * *

— _Naergon—_

He knew not of what to do.

He thought it would have been easier in battle; there was only one purpose and that purpose was to maim and kill. Straightforward, honest, and at times effortless. After the Fall of Gondolin and the death of his brother, killing would have been easy, and it had been—until now. All before he had felt his blood and his rage singing in his blood as he fought his foes one-handed, the wild sensation prevailing within him. But then he had saved Híthriel from death, and he knew not why. She was the absolute bane of him; the utter fault, for it had been she who evoked the memories of his enthrallment in Angband. No—he would not speak of it even now. Never again. He could not even bear to think of it.

He had come with the host to Hithaeglir to prove his strength even with his one arm; too long he had only been angry and lost, and he made a sudden decision to change that. Yet now Híthriel was lying unconscious, sprawled over the bloody leg of a corpse half torn away from its body, and she had asked of the girl, Taeloth, moments before her pitiful face had collided with the ground.

An Easterling rushing away from the circle came charging at him and he turned scarcely in time to parry his blow. However, since the War of Wrath he had gotten strong over his years of training, and the mere impact of his parry sent the other man stumbling backwards. His next attack struck the Easterling full in the face, and that was no more.

Lord Tyelperinquar had come up beside him as he fought the Easterling, and he shouted at Naergon now.

"Cover me," he said over the chaos and confusion, sprinting over the Hith's unconscious body and narrowly avoiding the sweep of a sword.

Naergon danced over the corpses, reeling as he slipped on the blood upon the dead grass then bringing his sword around in a wide arc to meet another foe's. Tyelpe had managed to retrieve Hith alive and she now dangled over one shoulder like a corpse herself. He realized how small and like a child she was compared to Tyelpe, who had the broad shoulders and large hands of a blacksmith. Yet these were no times to think of these things. Naergon fought behind Tyelpe as he dodged his way through the carnage and to the tents where the fighting was less severe.

Tyelpe laid the elleth down by the ashes of a fire and grimaced at the ugly wound at her shoulder. "She would have been trampled to death," he said, to no one in particular although Naergon was the only one nearby to hear. "What a fool." He sighed, shaking his head. "What terrible, vengeful fools we all are." He turned to Naergon. "Can you dress a wound?"

Naergon stiffened. "How good can you expect me to be with one arm?" _I will not touch the elleth._

"This is no time to argue," Tyelpe said, already unsheathing the tainted blade of his short knife. With it he cut away the tattered remains of the garb on her bloody shoulder and quickly examined the wound. Naergon scanned the area, being sure that none would harm them while Tyelpe worked, grimacing at the body of the boy with his head stoved in. He felt bile rise in his throat and looked away promptly.

"Damned splinter stuck in there," Tyelpe was muttering. "Cover us, if it pleases you."

Naergon remembered the time after the Fall of Gondolin that it had been himself in her place, dying of an infection on his arm. The loss of his brother Neldonwë in the Fall was still a knife in the chest even after all of these years—he felt so empty without him. Naergon had been born in the crossing of the Helcaraxë, but soon after his birth his mother joined his father in death. He had only ever known his brother Neldonwë as family. Every memory of his childhood that he could remember mingled his brother somewhere in there, but now he would never lace himself into his histories again. It made him sad to think of it, and he had not felt such in long.

For the most part of the First Age he had lived in Nargothrond with his brother under the rule of Finrod Felagund. He had been part of the king's royal guard, and the highest of his order. In all of Nargothrond, at least, he was known as the greatest warrior, and he reveled in that. He had to admit he had been arrogant to some extent; after all, young ellyn bestowed with such a high title could only be like that. Then he had gone to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad with Lord Gwindor, and had fallen into darkness. After his escape through the mines, he spent long years wandering until his brother had found him again and taken him to Gondolin—Nargothrond was dead and gone.

Naergon wondered why he mistrusted Hith so much even after she had saved his life; it seemed almost custom to do so now. Perhaps it was only because she reminded him of some of the worst experiences he had ever encountered, but still even without that he felt something utterly _wrong_ in her fëa, something different. Again he remembered the elleth whom he had taken for a friend in his green years. They had been close—too close, until she betrayed him. All the time they had known each other, she had been a spy of Morgoth's, and had never cared of him. The mere thought of his was bitter upon his tongue. But the elleth was dead now, and he scarcely remembered how. Perhaps he had killed her in vengeance. He didn't know, and he didn't care.

Tyelpe sighed wearily, leaning back from his work. It seemed as though he was about to say something, yet never did. They both knew that there was nothing to be done from here, and if she were to live she would have to heal herself.

"You have a host to lead," Naergon said. "I can take care of her from here." He did not know why he said the words, but they came out, and he did not revoke them.

Tyelpe nodded. "Thank you." He picked up his sword from the ground where he had left it and hefted it in his hand. Rising from his knees tiredly, he made to leave, but halted suddenly.

"What is it?" Naergon followed Tyelpe's gaze to the ground, where the grass was suddenly shriveling and dying. They were odd twisted things, reaching up as if to steal some more moisture from the air then contorting in pain and screaming amongst themselves. Naergon traced the path of the dying grasses to Hith, whose breathing came faster and more urgent as she lay in the large patch of blackened grass. Her eyes fluttered a little and more grass died. Tyelpe dropped his sword again and bent next to the elleth, yet not knowing what to do—

* * *

I could see Taeloth and a lake, the lake of crimson glass, yet it was black now because night had fallen and the stars were away. The vision of it threatened to fade away, and desperately I clung onto it, trying to see what was happening. Saerin—was Saerin there? Had he found her? Where was—

There were others approaching—who were they? I couldn't see, I couldn't see—I fought to do so, clawing my way through the fog, but still I could not. Taeloth turned, and I saw her silver eyes of the Sindar—did I really see? Or did I only remember? No, _no,_ don't let go, let me—

My eyes snapped open and I jolted upright, smacking Tyelpe in the face.

"I know where she is," I gasped, no doubt wildly distraught. "The girl—Taeloth—I know where she is." My head was reeling madly and the blood was roaring in my ears. "She's by the lake—the red lake…"

Naergon was frowning at me suspiciously and Tyelpe looking concerned. I ignored their looks and pressed on, struggling to my feet to make a point. Leaning heavily upon Tyelpe's shoulder, I looked at Naergon dead in the eye. "You need to help me get her, Naergon. We need to get her back safe. Please. She's only a child…"

"Your fighting arm is ruined," Naergon said with blunt truth.

"I trained with my left as a child." _With Maedhros, because he could only do the same._

Naergon seemed wary still. I wondered what I had done, then saw the blackened grasses at my feet. Had I really done that subconsciously in my desperation? I had never done so before. I dared a glance at the wound at my right shoulder. Grimacing, I looked away, understanding why he was so heedful of me. It would have been impossible for a normal Elda to have awoken and stood with an ugly wound like that. Yet I was not what I seemed to be; the blood of the Maiar ran within me. A bit of the wildness of battle came into me as the thought materialized, replaced by the desperateness to find Taeloth.

I pushed away from Tyelpe's support, staggering. Seizing a sword from the ground, I stumbled forward, and would have fallen if Tyelpe had not come forward.

"Thank you," I muttered.

"You are in no fit condition," Tyelpe said.

I smiled bitterly. "You have always been so kind, Tyelpe."

* * *

The battle raged on and furiously, a tempest irrepressible. It was not until the fighting had been done and the bodies dispersed upon the ground that I was able to begin to try and reach the red lake. Corpses of Easterlings, Orcs, and Eldalië alike littered the blood-stricken ground—we had managed to fend them off, but not without great loss. The victory was no victory, but something that was bitter in the mouth, like raw cocoa. After I had woken from the wound I had taken on my shoulder, it was hard to return to the terrible fervor of battle; there was now a constant pain in my bones, especially with the awakening of the scar's poison.

Yet now all of that was over, and only the ghost of a dull throbbing through my hröa was there. The red lake was there before me, but no one there.

I staggered down the rock and to the strand, my feet dragging on the ground. There was a body lying partly in the water, partly on the bank, the head stuck in the water surrounded in a cloud of scarlet, and dark hair wafted gently through the water around the head as the cold wind of first light blew. I knelt before the body, turning it over softly. The front of it was soaked wholly in blood and a three fingered hand with two stumps of fingers hung limply over the side. I combed the sodden hair out of the face and gazed long at the unmoving amethyst eyes staring into nothing.

"He's dead," Naergon said behind me.

I felt the dark wound at Saerin's chest, my fingers coming away scarlet. "A clean death. He bled little for a wound as such."

Naergon hesitated, his voice quiet when he spoke. "Taeloth?"

"Dead," I said. "Dead and gone, like all the rest."

Naergon bowed his head, and the mocking light rose, casting dawn, bitterly and utterly ironic, upon the red lake.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit.

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body.

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn._


	9. Chapter VIII

CHAPTER VIII

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

They still watched her with unease and suspicion even after what she had done to prove her faith. It was almost as if her hands were bound; in fact, one of them had suggested it, but she had swiftly made it known that she would not suffer to be bound. She had been terribly afraid, and had to keep her hands from trembling at her every movement, as there was no saying what they would do, that they would keep their oaths. She had learned all about those from the accounts of the First Age. As a child, she had found it as fascinating; it was like a tall tale filled with adventure and battles and dragons, but really when she looked closer, it was quite sad, and the end—which she had not gotten to until recently—was terribly heartbreaking. She did not know why she had gotten angry at Lady Híthriel the other day for not telling her things. She regretted many things, and even more now for what she had done. She realized that she had not understood many things before this point: of the laws of nature, the burden of memory, and the cruelty of the world's true form.

Taeloth glanced quickly at her hands then clenched them into fists, trying to keep them from shaking. The Easterling beside her that was obliged to be her guard; they had taken her daggers from her, the only way of defense. The guard was a fierce man with raven-dark hair in a long coil down his back and gripped a rough spear in his hand, and made her wish Lady Híthriel had taught her some of the special martial arts she had learned from somewhere. Her uncle Talethien had told her that. Lady Híthriel could fight just as well with her fists as with steel, her uncle had said. He had seen it himself. Taeloth wondered where she had learned it from; it was unique and most did not know of it. Perhaps it was something she had invented on her own. That was quite like her.

Thinking of that made her remember the haunting omnipresent memory of what she had done back at the red lake. _Saerin._ She fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat, and tasted the sourness vaguely on her tongue. She had been a fool in the first place to go away from the lake and to somewhere where they could not find her, but she had been angry. Even then, there was no excuse for that. She should have known better. She had gone back to her tent for a brief moment so Lady Híthriel would not come looking for her, and made sure that Saerin had seen her. Yet soon after she had slipped out of the camp to the red lake—she wanted quiet and the absence of people, just for a little while.

But then the battle had begun and she had been afraid. Even from the lake, which was a higher elevation than the camp, she had not seen the Easterlings slink to the camp as vipers in the shadows, poised to strike. She hoped to learn their tactics in her…stay with them.

When the battle raged, she realized she was too green to know to fight in something as such. It was terrifyingly dangerous, especially in the close field, all too easy to hurt one of your own. From the red lake she watched it with horror, struck in place by the dreadfulness of it all. Yet what was the most atrocious was the way they unflinchingly stabbed, fought, killed. Most were trained warriors, and were accustomed to such hideous deeds. Perhaps not wholly accustomed, but to some extent accustomed nonetheless.

She had found that Saerin had come to find her, yet too late to do anything of use. The ones leading the Easterling battalion had scaled the crag to the red lake and caught her by unawares. It was not until the last moment that she had heard them coming up the slope and flipped her daggers into her hands. Already she was ashamed for running away from the battle, and felt a (which she now deemed ridiculous) faint pride for still remembering what she had been taught in her training over all her years. She had not struggled through the mockery and the ridicule for naught.

"You will go no further," she had said, trying to make herself sound gallant and lionhearted like the tales of old.

The Easterlings merely laughed; there were five, and she was one, and on top of that was the youthfulness of her years, however older than them she was. The one that seemed to be the chief of them did not laugh, nonetheless. He was taller than the rest, and stood in the center of the lot. In his right hand, he bore a long three-pronged spear that extended higher than his height and in his left a relaxed mien of boredom and indifference. He came forward, and Taeloth noticed the grimness of his demeanour, as if he had no desire of dealing with her, which was quite understandable.

Taeloth retreated a little, still holding her daggers before her, the grip so tight her knuckles were white. "Who are you?" she asked desperately, trying to buy herself some time. "Why are you here?"

The chief Easterling did not shift. "Who was it that called the threat?" he said in a thick accent.

"Not I," Taeloth said, hastily retreating a little more as the Easterling took another step forward. She was surprised that the chief Easterling understood her Sindarin at all. "I am a mere follower of the path of righteousness."

"And do you know what is right, little one?" he said, so softly that she had to strain to hear; although the voice was soft, it was still laced with menace and danger.

There was a sudden grunt behind the chief Easterling then, and one of the Easterlings fell to the ground, blood pooling from a hideous wound. When the body fell, Saerin's presence was revealed, and he was, to Taeloth, like a valiant warrior of old in his garb that glittered in the moonlight.

Saerin marched forward, but the other three Easterlings were already upon him. The chief Easterling merely watched through all of it, and Taeloth was afraid that if she moved he would gut her too like how Saerin had stabbed the Easterling. It all happened so quickly that Taeloth scarcely knew what was happening. Then when they held him down and prepared for the last blow, Taeloth stumbled forward instinctively, turning to the chief Easterling with a frantic desperateness.

" _No_ , wait," she shrieked.

They all turned to look at her, Saerin dangling from their merciless grip. It seemed that those aside from the chief Easterling did not understand her speech, but had been drawn to attention at the sound of her voice. For that she was surprised that she had gotten their attention.

Taeloth drew in a deep breath. "I can—I will—this man is a _traitor."_

The chief Easterling cocked his head at her. "Go on."

She took a daring step forward, her heart leaping in her chest. Even when the burden of what she knew she had to do sprouted in her heart, she never broke her gaze from Saerin's, and continued forward. Then at last, she halted before him, and drew forth her dagger.

She turned to the chief Easterling. "Do you know what I am?"

He waited.

"My name is Taeloth," she told him, "daughter of no one."

The chief Easterling grinned a grin that was nothing short of satisfaction. He came forward, slowly, taking his time. "I see…" he said in his lilting, soft voice. "You are one like me." He turned to his men and said a harsh word in their native tongue.

"They mock me," she said. "They scorn me, they hate me."

"And what do you mean to say?" the chief Easterling spoke quieter than he had before.

She did not hesitate. Marching forward, she hefted her dagger, shoved it into Saerin's chest, and twisted.

Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth as he shifted his eyes slightly to stare wide-eyed at the little girl before him. _Amethyst eyes,_ she thought. She had not noticed that before. There were many things she had not noticed, but it was too late to think of that now.

Then the girl jerked the dagger, slick with scarlet, out of his chest, and he slumped to the ground.

The chief Easterling looked at her with a newfound respect. He regarded her now with a special intimacy reserved for her alone and gazed into her eyes to be certain of her good faith. She found him observing her silver eyes, such a special color…

The one on the ground was still alive, but dying, and clenching his jaw with quiet agony. The girl knew that she had to prove her worth, and that this was her perfect opportunity. With ruthless conscience, she strode forward, and seizing the dying one by the neck, dragged him to the waters of the red lake. _I have to do it,_ she told herself. _To make them trust me. I will avenge you, Saerin, when I find what they have done and what they will do. I will tear them apart from within. I will avenge you and Lady Híthriel and Naergon and all the rest of them too. I will be the master of whispers, the ears of secrets, the wolf of cloaks and daggers._ She shoved his head under, and forced herself watch as the body spasmed and the lungs screamed for air.

Her first kill.

She would remember it for eternity.

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

 _Mithlond, Hrívë._

The city was grey and barren and bare, seemingly colorless. It didn't snow here in Mithlond, not like it had in Hithlum or Himring. Habitually I expected it to snow when Hrívë came, but was met with sullen surprise each year no matter how much time had passed. Bitter remorse had sown itself within the paths of my past and present, painting my world as such. It was so amusing I could have laughed aloud.

I did when Naergon intercepted my way.

"Híthriel," he said quietly, after my insane bark of laughter. I had spoken no words, only laughed, because that was all to do now. There were no words for death. _Laugh in the face of death and you will not be afraid._

"I—I'm sorry about Saerin…and Taeloth." He looked down, and I noticed he carried no naked steel. "I wish I could have done something, something to help, something that could have…"

I laughed again, that crazed, terrible laugh. Naergon was probably thinking that it would be mercy for death to come to me now. I might have quite agreed. I had wanted to fight the ungolócë's poison for the young girl still green in her years, but she was dead now and none of that mattered. Just like Finno and Mae and everyone else. Why did the Nirnaeth Arnoediad have to steal Finno's life from me? Why did Mae have to fall into darkness, already dead before I knew he was? In Gondolin, Laurefindil and Ecthelion had lifted my heart for a little while, and I had found peace. Yet I had only been in Gondolin for three years before they were taken away from me. If I had been allowed another life, however short, even as one of the Atani, I would spend it with them all, and cherish it until the end. Why must I be the survivor? For that I envied the Atani. _Mad, mad, gone mad with grief._

Naergon said my name again, bewildered and unsure of what to say. "I—I—Are you all right?"

I would have laughed once more, but I had not the breath for it. I had just come from shouting at Tyelpe and Gil-galad, and was done with this useless speech. "I went—I went…" I fought to catch my breath from the insane laughter. "I went to Églanim. In Harlond. To get something…for you. To pay you for your good service. Thank you. For all you have done."

At this he was more surprised than ever. "Híthriel—"

" _Stop_ saying that," I snapped. "That is not my true name."

I thought my Quenya name again in my head, to ensure I had not forgotten. Do not forget, do not forget, do not forget—

"I'm sorry," Naergon said, somehow short of breath himself. "Of that, and what I did in Gondolin. I was wronged. I'm sorry."

"I do not remember it." That was an obvious lie.

He blinked slowly, then bowed his head. "I will leave you to your business, then." He turned to leave, but I could not.

" _Business!"_ I exclaimed. "Business, is that what you call it? After all of this death, there is one thing that I am sure of. Manwë is sitting on his fat ass in Valinor right now and watching and shitting on this. That I know. _That_ I know."

Naergon turned back, but with no words to say.

"I'm sorry. Go on with your life, and please _do not_ come back to me. I expect I'll only bring ruin upon you all. It matters not. My years are nearly finished." Then I turned upon my heel and departed.

* * *

The scar was black and hideous in the mirror before me; I was deformed, crippled, and laced with inherent malevolence. My eyes were like broken obsidian gemstones, dark and cursed with the burden of memory, and the streaks of silvery white in my hair looked like pale spiderwebs trailing down my head. My face was gaunt and hollow, and my cheekbones protruded like I was no more than skin and bones. I almost did not recognize myself. It was as if the dream I had had in Hithaeglir had come true.

It reminded me of the time in Himring just after I had returned from Angband. I had stared at my ruined hröa in the mirror, wondering how it had all come to this. That night I had spoken to Telvo, who had, in his turn, fallen into darkness. _When Pityo died, I wondered if I was still a brother. Still a twin._ _We're called murderers, kinslayers, usurpers. Is it worth it, to fulfill the Oath?_

 _I'm a kinslayer too, now._

But that time had been different now; Mae had been there for me, and Finno too. I remembered the time Finno had come to Himring shortly after that as a surprise, Mae's talking raven Aiwë the 'little bird', and the silly note with the winky face on it. I had run into Finno's arms that day like a little child, crying and begging for his forgiveness, and he had commented on the silver streaks in my hair as if we were speaking of something as simple as the weather.

Yet that day Finno had also come with the bitter news of Findaráto's death. His passing—it hadn't been fair. Findaráto was such a kind ellon to everyone, perhaps the kindest person I had known. Even Finno lost his temper more than he did, and he was, perchance, the most well-tempered out of the entire House of Finwë. He had spent long counseling me in Nargothrond, being there when I needed it, especially when my mother had her…problems.

I thought of Káno, Tyelko, Curvo, and Moryo, and tried to remember how it had been before the Second Kinslaying. Still I vividly could remember Curvo's gruesome death—it had nearly been my hand that had drawn the blade. I had found Tyelko dead and Moryo dying. _You know they hate us. Why are you helping them? Why are you_ betraying _us?_

And Laurefindil and Ecthelion and Turukáno in Gondolin—

 _I've missed you all so much._

I remembered how when I was still a child, I would be afraid of what the scar would do to me. It had begun in Himring after my escape; from time to time I was seized with a terrible fear that set me trembling and powerless. _What if I didn't live until tomorrow? What if I never saw them again?_ I wanted to laugh my crazed, mad laugh again. I would never see them again, no matter what the scar did to me. Let it break me, let it struggle against the power flowing in my veins, let it try. I am not so easy to kill.

My hand shook as I brought the draft to my lips and drank a few large quaffs of it. The pain had become a nuisance now, and had numbed my mind into something that felt like nostalgic melancholy. It was an odd feeling that had been dormant since I met Taeloth, and had grown stronger since her death. It was like you were looking back at your past, and you knew everything that was about to happen and yet you still lived it and told no one. It was like you knew exactly how you were going to end and you simply accepted it because it was all right. Your time was over. Sometimes you thought you knew the terrible ends that those around you would meet, but you would not tell them either. That was a mercy, you found, and you had to accept it.

The flask was empty when I slammed it upon the table. I staggered over to the chair, collapsing in it as a spasm of pain knifed through me again. There was a stack of papers on the table, written in dark ink upon crinkled parchment. My eyes struggled to focus on the words. _The Story of an Elleth in Exile. The memoir of an elleth in the First Age of Arda._

With a shaking hand, I turned the page. _I was born late in the year of 1499 upon the precipice of a wide, yawning sea. The terminology was not known to me then, but I had been begotten a bastard child, and I lived in a small cottage with my mother in isolation of all others. In truth I remember little of the beginning of my days, though sometimes I still dream of the calm, lapping waves upon the pebbled strand and the soft lights that shone from across the sea, like lanterns far away, out of reach._

I didn't know why, but tears were falling down my face like rain. _Spring rain or winter rain?_ I wondered. I shuffled through the chapters, to the last…

 _When I first began writing my story, back in Balar during the War of Wrath, I was afraid that it wouldn't be frightening enough, enthralling enough, interesting enough. Now I'm not so sure I want them to be any of them; I think I might have accepted that this is indeed my story, and for that I might as well be proud of it. Still I am unsure whether or not I should be 'proud' of all that had happened—all that I have done._

Why was I crying? I _promised_ myself I would not—I could not after this. I had to be strong, I had to be fierce, they could not know, they could not know…

Why did I do it?


	10. Chapter IX

CHAPTER IX

* * *

— _Silivros—_

He was walking down Mithlond's cobblestoned road when he saw the demonstration from afar. They were clamorous and insistent, louder than Mithlond ought to be; in fact, he had heard it before that, and edged quietly down the road to see what was happening and yet remain inconspicuous. He preferred not to come into the ways of people, as it was evidently much more convenient, given life experience.

It was lead by the wives of those who died. Silivros espied a red-haired elleth in the front of the mob, yelling and shouting stirring words at the other commoners before Gil-galad's door. She looked to be old, at least older than himself—a dozen centuries at least, but was still full of vigor and resilience. He wondered if she remembered the Wars of Beleriand, and was still bitter from them like Híthriel. After all, the entire mob was centered on what she had compiled, what she had begun. It was, of course, for a good cause, and they had succeeded, but not in the greatest way possible; at least two score had lost their lives in the battle upon Hithaeglir.

The battle itself had been horrifying. Silivros had never been in a battle as such himself; he had been young when he was captured shortly before the Bragollach, and had never participated in any such battle. He remembered seeing Híthriel for the first time after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad in Doriath—she had been like one of the living dead. So distant, so cold, so lost.

 _Are you angry at those who did not fight in the war?_ he had asked her.

 _No,_ Híthriel had told him. _Only glad that they are alive, and did not waste their precious lives for nothing._ Yet truly inside he knew that she blamed a part of him for it. And for that he did not blame her either.

The mob wanted to cast Híthriel out of the city, he knew. It had been her who started it, and it must be her who pays for it, they said. They were much too bitter after the War of Wrath still, even after seven centuries, and could not bear to forget the histories of their people. The grudges they held were still too great. It was like how the Teleri had refused to fight in Endor for their kin because of what Fëanor had done in Alqualondë all that time ago.

Silivros bowed his head and shuffled past the shouting mob down the alleyway. Even if he were one of those commoners, he didn't think he would have joined in the demonstration, for, truly, the deaths at Hithaeglir were not Híthriel's fault. Be that as it may, it was not in his blood to so lightly accuse people of things, even if he did not know Híthriel. He understood people for why they did what they did, and acknowledged their vices, and yet did not pardon them simply because he understood.

By now he had reached the far, quiet side of the city around the Gulf of Lhûn. Híthriel's place was something like a townhouse, surrounded by neighbours that constantly played music. At the moment someone was playing a suite on a lute of some sort, reminding him of what Híthriel had often told him of Maglor the Harpist and also Kinslayer. Káno, she called him; it was short for Kanafinwë, his ataressë in Quenya. She had taught him a little of Quenya one time, but he had forgotten most of it in Doriath under the rule of King Thingol, who had indeed banned the language of Quenya in Beleriand for inconvenient reasons.

He paused with his hand over Híthriel's door, meaning to knock. He did a quick assessment of what he was going to say then brought forth his courage, knocked, and stood back and waited.

It was a while before there was any sign that she was at home. When he bent forward to knock a second time, there was a crash and a few frantic scuffles from within. Oblivious to it all, the neighbor upstairs continued to play their lute placidly. At first Silivros deemed it ironic, but then when he began to listen, he realized that the piece was something tinted with the unmistakable tinge of melancholy. It was a song of longing, of sorrow, and sounded as if you were looking back upon something and suddenly realizing that you could never be like that again. Silivros knew that feeling; he could still remember the beautiful times in Doriath with his mother and his sister before they had died and he had been taken to labour as a slave in the mines.

When at last Híthriel opened the door, haggard with bloodshot eyes, he forgot what he had initially planned to say.

"Naergon," he said, fumbling for words. "He says. . .thank you for the gift."

It took her a moment to comprehend the words. "I went to Églanim in Harlond for it."

"Did he craft it himself?" Silivros asked.

"So I've been told," she said. "His smithery had improved, I suppose, to forge a metal arm of that quality. It's not bad. Did you help him don it?"

"I did," Silivros told her. "Initially, he tried to do it himself, but that didn't work very well."

"Evidently."

"May I come in?" he said, not all too awkwardly.

"Oh," Híthriel said, surprised, looking behind at the explosion of her quarters. "All right." She limped inside, trying to discreetly hold her side, and collapsed down upon a chair. Silivros took the chair across from her at the table, noticing the scatter of papers all across the table and on the ground. Apparently the notification of his coming had sent them flying all about.

"Sorry about the chaos," she told him, a hand still at her side. With her other she waved it around her quarters flippantly. "There's probably tea over there, if you want it. Sorry I can't—ah—do it for you. I'm a terrible host."

"No, it's perfect," Silivros said cheerfully, perhaps too cheerfully that it may have sounded sarcastic to some. But he really was genuine with the words, yet not in the way that her quarters were perfect, if you know what I mean. "I'll get you some tea, too."

Híthriel looked as if she may have had a differing opinion to that, but said nothing.

"So how have you been?" Silivros said, then immediately wondered why he said the words. He was especially poor at multitasking, for he was indeed making the tea at the same time he was speaking to her. Really, it shouldn't be so hard, yet somehow it was. He had to say the right words, or else she would not know the true depth of his meaning.

"Spectacular," Híthriel said absently. She was staring at a piece of parchment on the ground.

Silivros spilled the water all over his hand, flushing with embarrassment, but Híthriel seemed not to notice. He sighed; he hadn't even heated the water yet and he was already dropping things, and decided to give himself some time to think with the occupation of preparing the tea. Híthriel seemed immersed in her own thoughts, anyhow, and not quite in the mood to converse.

The lute music was still playing, its tones lilting like a dance yet doleful. Silivros listened to it quietly for a moment, then suddenly Híthriel's ears seemed to twitch and her lips moved.

"Valar damn it. Make it stop."

Silivros was bemused. "They have the right to play if they feel."

"I don't care. Make it stop." Her words trailed off to a string of muttered Quenya, likely curse words. She covered her ears and crushed her eyes shut. " _Make it stop."_

"Híthriel," he said, trying to distract her. "Tell me about Hithlum again. Tell me about the Mountains of Mithrim, and how they would glow violet at evendim."

"Hithlum's gone now. I don't want to talk about it."

"But—well—" Silivros fumbled for something to say. Something about Taeloth? But she had died upon the assault at Hithaeglir. Saerin? No, Saerin was dead now too. Naergon—was there anything he could say? Ereinion Gil-galad—?

"Gil-galad said—" he began.

"Silivros, I know there's a mob outside right now. I'm extremely glad that they don't know where I live, because I likely would be dead by now. Thank you for coming. I greatly appreciate it."

He was taken aback. "How do you know of it? Haven't you been here all day?"

"I can feel it in the energies," Híthriel told him, closing her eyes and curling her fingers into fists. "I can feel their pain, their anger, their hatred—all of it."

The water had finished boiling by now and Silivros added the tea leaves to the kettle then brought it over to the table. He brushed a few papers to the side then set the kettle down, waiting for it to steep.

"I've been thinking," Silivros began. "I thought we should take a trip to Greenwood."

Now it was Híthriel's turn to be taken aback. "Greenwood," she muttered, nodding subtly. "I see."

Suddenly Silivros felt self-conscious of his words. "What do you think of it?"

"Just," she said, lost in her own thoughts. "Righteous."

"A newly established realm," Silivros said, to fill up the silence. "Lord Oropher established the place in 750, only two years back."

"Yes, Talethien," Híthriel murmured. "He did, didn't he?"

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

"You're leaving again," said Artanáro, or rather, Gil-galad; I still called him by his Quenya ataressë in my head. Gil-galad seemed much too formal a name for me—he was the star of radiance for his people, but to me he was merely Findekáno's child. _High flame,_ his father had named him. Still I wondered what he had meant to express with the name. He was sitting with his hands folded before me in a highly abandoned tavern of some sort; it was fairly early in the morning and few had yet awoken.

"I am," I told him, "but for good. And this time I think it will be long ere I return."

"Hithaeglir was long enough," he said. "How long will this one be?"

"Longer," I only said.

Gil-galad dipped his head formally. "Nírë tulë i lumessë autielyo."

At that I smiled a little. "Findekáno used to always tell me that, when I was little. He liked to tell me that I was a princess of old."

"Someday you should tell me more of my father. I never knew him very much, and what I recall is little." His eyes wandered a little to a statue outside in the gardens.

"Someday," I echoed.

"Someday," Gil-galad repeated.

No one was there to witness our departure, nor hear of it. Silivros and I left Mithlond in the wee hours of the morning, and had told of it to no one but Gil-galad. It would be a long journey to Greenwood, said to be a little east of Hithaeglir; neither of us had yet been there since its establishment in 750.

Silivros and I spoke little for the most of the journey out of Mithlond and Eriador. I rode a grey mare that reminded me of Hiswasúrë, the horse I had had in Himring when Maedhros had Kemenélë. I remembered the time when we were leaving the city for Dorthonion, and we had waited for Saerin, Morwë, and Tindómë to mount their steeds. The morning had been peaceful, and quiet, the usual elements of Himring's misty climate. But Tindómë had fallen into darkness, and Morwë also. I had killed the latter myself in the Third Kinslaying upon Sirion.

 _What is his name?_ I had asked of his horse.

 _I call him Kemenélë,_ Maedhros told me.

 _The celestial earth,_ I translated. _A beautiful name._

 _And yours?_

 _She is Hiswasúrë,_ I said.

Then he had strolled over to Hiswasúrë and patted her neck. _Grey wind,_ he murmured.

There had been a brief moment of silence as Kemenélë's tail flicked while the breeze swept across his mane.

 _I was not sure that you would come,_ he had said at last.

I don't know why I remember that moment so vividly. It was an ordinarily beautiful grey morning in the city, and we had been leaving for Dorthonion. There seem to be moments in my memory straying into my mind all the time now; they come unforeseen and unlooked-for and seemingly random. I don't know what to think of it.

Finno's kind face swam into my mind as I remembered the short dialogue with Gil-galad earlier. Cerulean eyes—why did I always remember people's eyes? _Nírë tulë i lumessë autielyo,_ he had said to me.

 _A tear comes in the hour of your leaving._

And ever thereon.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Nírë tulë i lumessë autielyo._ (Q) A tear comes in the hour of your leaving.  



	11. Chapter X

CHAPTER X

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

She had to keep her head held up high to rid herself of the Wainriders' cruel japes. It was custom to do so now—she let no one meet her eyes nor speak much to her save the necessary talk. The Chieftain of the Wainriders was a cold man that had a guard posted by her side at all times, not to guard her but to guard them from her. The Chieftain was not a dull-witted man, Taeloth thought, and in fact he was quite clever if anything. He seemed to like her nature, and if not approve of her; the last guard he sent for her was a bawdy young man that had reached just a little too much at her. The next moment cold, biting steel was at his throat, and he had tasted blood in his mouth.

Taeloth had learned the ways of the world the austere way, for although Lindon was a somewhat strife-less place, the social derision and mockery was abundant in every way. Most Eldalië were bitter and pessimistic, and the few children her age had shunned her from them. By her second morning with the Wainriders, she had learned the proper way of acting. Her uncle Oropher had always told her that she was a fast learner, and she wondered if he would be proud of her now.

 _No, of course not,_ she thought bitterly. _I killed Saerin, and I am now with the Easterlings._ Even if she were there for the Eldalië, her people, she felt as if she were doing something terribly wrong.

The Easterlings were performing their monthly sacrifices now to the gods of their own around a ring of fire. Taeloth found it odd that they considered the Valar as god-like beings; really they were more like leaders in Valinor, though not very good ones, according to Lady Híthriel. Perhaps it was because they were so weak as Atani, and found the slightest things alien, such as herself.

She stood in the back of the ring with the silent guard posted by her side. The others called him the Silent One; it was told amongst themselves that the last Chieftain had tore his tongue out as a punishment for something they did not know of. Because he could not speak, they never knew, for the Wainriders had no written speech. Nonetheless, Taeloth liked him better than the others for his modesty unlike her previous guards' pretentiousness. Once or twice she saw the emerald hue in his eyes; they were lowered so often that she could not see.

She was glad that the Wainriders were not so gruesome to use their own as sacrifices, and instead went on an expedition to hunt and kill the rarest of the stags—the white stag. Ghostly, they called it, and sacred. It was the blest symbol of their people, and Taeloth wondered why they had to kill it if that was so.

The Chieftain of the Wainriders stood solemn and unmoving as the other Easterlings roared and cheered, beating their drums and singing their deep songs in unison. His face was ghastly illuminated in the red flames before him, and he looked ages old, his face creased with deep lines, although they said that he was only a young man in his twenties. The leaping fire was reflected in his dark eyes like flaming suns, and the chant that rung around the tribe only seemed to enforce his authority. Suddenly it seemed in the midst of the incantations the Chieftain met her eyes, and she was seized with a sudden fear and desire to give proof of her good intent. _If I hold his gaze for too long, he might see the treachery within me._ She looked down quickly even though she had tried to suppress the guilt in her eyes.

The dead stag was brought forth, the throat so cleanly slit that no other part of him was matted with blood save the jowl. _He could have only been sleeping,_ Taeloth thought, disturbed by the sight. The chanting grew louder and more intense as the Chieftain of the Wainriders rose and went before the dead stag, his expression unchanging throughout the entire process. The Chieftain held aloft a blade and commenced to saw the beast's antlers off, the Easterlings' chanting growing into roars now. Already, Taeloth was fighting the urge to retch as the Chieftain calmly put the severed antlers to the side, then held up a fist.

Immediately the tribe was silent save the crackling of the fire.

The Chieftain of the Wainriders drew his steel slowly, twisting it in his hand so that the blade caught the fire's sinister light and glinted. No one spoke as he twisted it again, quickly now, and stuck the dagger into the the dead beast's chest. The _thunk_ that it made had Taeloth tasting bile rising in her throat. _Fight it, and do not look away,_ she told herself.

In soft, deep voices, the men in the foremost part continued their song once again. They sung in dissonant intervals to each other as the Chieftain began to saw the stag's heart out of his chest. Warm blood was flowing over the Chieftain's fingers, running over his hands and down his arms like scarlet rain, and still his expression was indifferent. Taeloth's hands were clenched at her sides, yet it was not until he ripped a layer of skin off the beast, exposing the gnarled organs beneath, that she finally yielded and retched all over the grass before her.

None of the Easterlings noticed, however, and if the silent one beside her did, he made no notion of it, even as she coughed up the remnants of bile in her throat upon the ground, trying to forget the gruesome sight of the maimed stag. It was then that she felt a light hand upon her shoulder, and she turned abruptly to find a little Easterling boy staring at her.

"Come away, now," the boy said as softly as he could against the roaring of the tribe. He touched her arm to signal her to follow him, then slipped away into the shadows. Taeloth crawled upon her hands and knees to the direction that he had gone, keeping her eyes to the ground in order to try shutting out the noises.

It was not until the sounds were so distant that they sounded almost muffled that she stopped. She felt reassuring hands supporting her as she stood up again, then braced herself upon a tree beside her. Again she coughed, and turned away for a little before looking back at the boy.

"Thank you," Taeloth said. Even with all the furs, she could see that he was a skinny, small boy that would have been no more than thirteen whose face was naïve yet defiant and knowledgeable. She had to bend down to look at him full in the face. He had gold eyes that glinted a little as he turned his head, and it seemed that they were filled all at once with sadness and consolation.

"I've tried getting used to the rituals too," the boy said by way of greeting, "but it seems that I never can."

She leaned a little away from the tree. "I'm Taeloth," she told him, full-trusting and guileless. "What about you?"

"I'm called Khamûl," he said in response.

Taeloth paused a little, considering her words. "Have you always been part of this. . .tribe?"

The boy laughed sardonically as if she had said something very funny. "Yes, and no."

"What do you mean?" Taeloth inquired.

Khamûl looked to the tree Taeloth had been leaning upon wistfully, as if thinking of something grave. "I'm a hostage here. They plan on ransoming me for my uncle, the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. He's not the real one though. My father was the real one, before one of your kind killed him."

Taeloth was taken aback, especially by the impassiveness and lack of resentment in his voice. "Oh. I'm sorry. Did it happen during the battle?"

"No," he told her. "Before. The woman slit his throat before my eyes." Khamûl closed his eyes. "I can remember her face. She had an ugly scar upon her right eye, and she wasn't even scared to die when I pointed my father's crossbow to her heart. My brother and I have vowed to find this woman and avenge our father before our short lives end."

Taeloth didn't know what to say, so she spoke no words.

"I've been their hostage for over a year now," Khamûl said ruefully. "I've gotten quite used to their ways, somewhat."

Suddenly Taeloth remembered the silent one, her guard, and looked about anxiously.

Khamûl seemed to somehow know what she was thinking and chuckled. "He's here, and watching, don't you worry." He studied her face, and the unusualness of her silver eyes. "I've only seen your kind one other time. Do all of you have silver eyes?"

"No," she told him, glad to have something that she could answer straightforward. "Some have brown, or amber, or green, or even. . .amethyst." The last one had her thinking of Saerin, and that made her sick.

"That's interesting," Khamûl said. "I've just realized how similar we are."

"I haven't even told you anything about me," Taeloth blurted.

A smile played upon the boy's face. "Must you tell me everything for me to know?"

She considered that. "No."

"And there you have answered your own question," Khamûl said.

"But I didn't ask anything," Taeloth objected.

"No?" Again he grinned, but playfully now. It was a well done deed; the horrors of the Easterlings' sacrificial ritual had been put aside with their conversation. "Let me give you a piece of advice. If you want to prove your faith to them, you must first prove your faith to the Chieftain."

"I already knew that."

Khamûl's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Just spelling it out for you."

Taeloth couldn't help but smile. Yet it was then she remembered the Chieftain's brooding gaze upon her and the resolve seeped back into her eyes. "I—I should be going."

"And so should I. The guard's for your own good, you know. You might want to keep the Silent One by your side, rather than the others, if you know what I mean." They began to walk back, towards the dismembered stag and the booming roars and the Chieftain's steely gaze. There was an odor drifting to their noses now—the unmistakable stench of death.

"Try not to retch," Khamûl told her flippantly, as if they were speaking of the weather. "I don't think our dear Chieftain would like that very much."

* * *

— _Naergon—_

Of all things, he had hardly expected Híthriel to gift him an arm of metal. In fact, he had hardly expected her to give him anything at all, especially after everything he had done to her, and he wondered how she could think of gifts and 'paying him for his good service' after the deaths of Taeloth and Saerin. She had, indeed, told him that she had gone to Églanim in Harlond, which was no mere distance, being more than a dozen leagues away.

He himself had only met the ellon a few times when the survivors of the War of Wrath were immigrating to southern Endórë, and knew little of him. From what he had seen, Églanim was an extremely comely Sindarin ellon with silvery golden hair and jade eyes that seemed to wholly bewitch every young elleth that laid eyes upon him. Even after the horrors of the kinslayings and wars of Beleriand, he still seemed to be a jaunty, youthful ellon, perhaps veiling the emotions that dwelt beneath the mask. Yet Naergon knew; to craft an arm of that measure. . .Híthriel must have paid him with a fat price.

The placement of the metal upon the ghost of his right arm was bothering him now, and he was going to the forges for some help with it. Likely Lord Tyelperinquar would be there. It was told that he was the greatest craftsman aside from his grandfather, Fëanáro son of Finwë. Naergon scowled at the thought of the name. Yes, he had been a young ellon and ignorant when Fëanáro led the First Kinslaying upon Alqualondë, but that did not mean that he was not at fault; Fëanáro had trusted him for his youthful vigor and defiance against the Valar.

Naergon huffed. He did not want to think of it. There was no use on dwelling in the past.

As expected, Lord Tyelpe was in the forges, working on a project of his own. The hearth was orange and crimson with the fire, and ashes were scattered about like unnumbered scores of dark stars. His brow was matted with sweat and his dark hair stuck to it, but he seemed not to notice as he pounded at the steel before him. He was very unlike his "timid" father, Curufinwë II, in a way; his countenance was resolute and unswerving and his mouth set in a hard line. He seemed to be irked by something as he worked, for he was so intent on what he was doing that he did not notice Naergon until he spoke.

"Lord Tyelperinquar," Naergon said, dipping his head. "May it please you to assist me with this?"

Tyelpe looked up, his face covered with soot, and suddenly conscious of his demeanour, set the half-forged blade aside and dusted his hands off. "Yes, of course."

Naergon sat himself down upon an undusted bench and picked at the metal on his shoulder as he waited. He remembered Tyelpe from his time in Nargothrond; that was where he had been for the most of his life in Beleriand until the Nirnaeth. The latter was hurrying around, picking things up and putting them back down, looking for something.

"Do you need any help?" Naergon asked, standing up.

"No, it's all right," Tyelpe said absently, straightening and holding up a tool in his hand. "I found it."

"All right then." Naergon sat back down and wondered if he should speak. He hesitated, then opened his mouth in resolve, beginning with a lighter topic. "I take it you have just returned from Eregion?"

"Yes," Tyelpe said. "I had some. . .matters to speak of with His Grace Gil-galad and Lord Elrond." He began to tinker with the gears.

Naergon had met the latter a few times when Híthriel had spoken with him. _Elerondo,_ she called him, the Quenya form of his usual Sindarin name. It was told that he and his brother Elros, who had gone on to become the first King of Númenor, had been raised by the second son of Fëanáro, Kanafinwë. Naergon wondered about that, and how interesting it was that a Fëanorian had managed to preserve life after the Third Kinslaying.

"Lady Híthriel left a few days before you came," Naergon told him. "She and Silivros are going to Greenwood."

"I've heard," Tyelpe said. "Of that, and the. . .other things."

"I see," Naergon muttered as Tyelpe drew the metal off his shoulder.

"You know, I've found it interesting how she—Lady Híthriel—had always wanted to go somewhere like Eregion, yet when Artanis and I went to establish Ost-in-Edhil, she stayed in Lindon." Tyelpe placed the metal on his worktable with a _clunk_. "Where did she get this?"

"Harlond, she said, from an ellon named Églanim."

"Best I meet this ellon sometime," Tyelpe said. "It's not bad."

Naergon nodded and turned as a _creak_ came from the door. When Dínaelin emerged from the shadows of the forge, he stiffened noticeably. Dínaelin no doubt remembered him from Gondolin, and the unpleasant things that had happened there.

"Lord Celebrimbor," Dínaelin said, inclining his head. "Naergon."

"Dínaelin." Tyelpe returned the nod.

Naergon paid no heed to the ellon and turned away, feeling the humiliation rise on his face. Out of all people, it had to be Dínaelin who came here. He clenched his fist in sudden ire and turned to Tyelpe.

"I think I will be back on the morrow, Lord Celebrimbor," he said, using Sindarin. "Thank you for all your help."

With no more words, he spun upon his heel and departed the chamber.

The air was cold upon his face compared to the humidity of the forges, cooling his exasperation, and the star of Elemmírë was a wan, pale speck in the dark sky. He remembered the stories that he had been told as a child of how stars were the ghosts of fëar. _Then whenever you look at the sky, you will not feel lonely, for they are memory._ He wondered which one of those many stars was the ghost of his brother, and if gazing up at them would ever fill the yawning hole in his heart.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Elleth._ Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Ellon._ Male Elda, plural _ellyn._

 _Fëa._ Soul/spirit, plural _fëar._

* * *

 _A/n: So. . .Khamûl's here. But as a tiny child. Bet you didn't see that coming ;)_

 _Thank you to all the readers and reviewers!_


	12. Chapter XI

— _Oropher—_

Amon Lanc of Eryn Galen was fashioned after Doriath in its own manner. Before the main entrance was a bridge much like how it had been in Menegroth, and it was donned with two great pillars engraved with the traditional designs of the Sindar. Lanterns hung from the thick-boughed trees, lighting the path like fireflies and soft beams of light shone through fissures of the waning clouds. The city was vast, though not as vast as Menegroth had been, with all sorts of little rivers running below the bridges and stepped ways. The very air of the place gave Talethien a nostalgic, longing feeling for that in which he had lost; perhaps that was why he had designed it as such.

The hazy clouds parted for the last light of day that was waning in the sky before him, sprinkling a light hue of gold upon Amon Lanc. He stood upon the brink of a balcony overlooking the city, and watched as the trees of Quellë bared themselves with the leaves that sprinkled down like falling rain.

"You look so troubled," an elleth's voice said from behind.

He turned and smiled although her words were dark. "Hînaeryn."

His breath caught in his throat as he beheld the waning light that shone upon the gold of her hair. She was garbed in a light dress of green that brought out the warm hazel grey of her irises and sometimes he thought he could never get over the depth of the beauty of her eyes; they seemed to hold all the world in them—all the darkness and all the light. Only both of then together made her truly beautiful, for he knew that only those marred and broken could reach the light.

Hînaeryn returned the smile as she walked to stand beside him, resting her hands lightly upon the rail. "The eventide is so beautiful."

"It is," Oropher murmured.

She glanced over at him and took his hands in her own. "Something is bothering you."

Oropher sighed. "About your sister—I'm sorry."

Hînaeryn lowered her eyes. "Ambarwen was a good, kind elleth. She did not deserve what she did." She lifted her eyes to his again, her face set. "But that's all right. It's passed now, and there's nothing we can do of it."

He hesitated, wondering if he should speak what was really bothering him. "Her death has caused some doubts and. . .disputes."

She nodded subtly in agreement. "Yes." A leaf detached itself from a bough and drifted off into the city below. "The people are bound to like Lady Híthriel even less."

Oropher was surprised. "You know her?"

"I've heard her name amongst the common folk's gossip," Hînaeryn said. "It should be no surprise to you; they despise her for what she began, even though it was not her doing."

"Do you blame her for your sister's death?" Oropher asked.

A sardonic smile played at her lips. "No," she told him. "That was her own doing. She died of grief from her lover's death in Hithaeglir because she was not strong enough to endure the pain."

"You cannot blame her. Her younger years were hard on her and she was weary from it all," Oropher said.

"So was I," Hînaeryn said defiantly, "and here I am."

Oropher was silent for a moment at that. "And Narbeleth? Is she all right?"

"It's always been me that was taking care of her, anyhow. Not that much of a difference. If you're going to ask about my brother, Églanim—I've sent the letter. Not that he'll read it, or care, for the matter." Hînaeryn huffed and fixed her eyes on a spot in the distance. For a long while they did not speak, and the sun waned a little more. "I don't want to talk about this. How are the relations with the Tawarwaith?"

"All right, I suppose," Oropher said. "Although understanding their Silvan language is quite difficult, I would say. As a different dialect of Sindarin, it's reasonably understandable, but still odd."

"Closer in relation than Quenya, I hope," Hînaeryn remarked, with a quaint smile. "After all, they all originate from the same roots, to some extent."

"How would you know?" Oropher jested. "Ah, I see. . .breaking dear King Thingol's laws now and learning a forbidden language."

"Thingol's dead, good riddance, and _you're_ the king now." Hînaeryn punched him playfully. "And to answer your question, I _read_ in a book for that answer like a scholarly, learnèd person."

Oropher was taken aback by her use of the regal word. ". . .king?" he repeated uncertainly. "I wouldn't say king."

Hînaeryn snorted. "Simply Lord Oropher doesn't suit you. It's _King_ Oropher. The Sindar must be united under one king. We need your leadership, meleth nín. Take the role and play it well."

He was silent again, and looked down to his fingers upon the rail.

Hînaeryn sighed and shook her head. "I know it's difficult, but you must try. Your people need you. Narbeleth needs you. _I_ need you." She moved a little closer and draped her arms upon his shoulders. Oropher looked into her piercing gaze, her hazel grey eyes, and saw the spirit and stout-heartedness within her. _We're both so young, why can't we—_

She leaned into his ear and he felt the warmth of her breath upon his neck as he looped his arms around her waist. "No i brestanneth anírach tírad vi amar." She pulled back a little so he could see her coy smile. "Estelio nin."

Oropher brushed a wisp of golden hair out of her face and watched as the giddy spark of exuberance sparkled in her eyes—those hazel grey eyes he loved so much.

"Come closer, I want to kiss you," Hînaeryn urged, and Oropher chuckled softly. He did as she said, bending in toward her, and closing his eyes, let their lips brush.

Still, after a year or two, he felt a spark rush up through his blood and tingle in his fingers and lips. Hînaeryn smelled wonderfully like the sweet oak and pine and fir that clad the Eryn Galen; he breathed the scent in, and savored it.

"You smell like beech," Hînaeryn murmured.

"You always know what I'm thinking," Oropher told her, and she laughed.

He was about to kiss her again when he noticed Narbeleth waiting patiently by the doorway. He pulled back a little, politely, but Hînaeryn whined and held onto him tighter.

"Narbeleth," he whispered into her ear, and Hînaeryn jumped.

"Oh," she said, and turned away from Oropher, reluctantly. "What are you doing here, Narbeleth?"

The little girl standing in the doorway, arms crossed, rolled her eyes. "Nothing, Lady Hînaeryn." Her golden hair, a slightly lighter shade of Hînaeryn's, trailed down her shoulders in fair waves, and her hazel eyes sparkled in the youthfulness of a child's bloom. She reminded Oropher very much of Taeloth.

"Something's evidently wrong," Hînaeryn said cheekily, "or else you wouldn't have come running to me."

"Oh, maybe it's merely that the Tawarwaith have arrived and it just _might_ be beneficial if Lord Oropher came to greet them," Narbeleth said.

"Oh, damn it," Oropher muttered, hurrying toward the doorway. He began to don the garb suiting for a meeting as such. Narbeleth uncrossed her arms as she swung aside, then turned to her aunt.

"You two are adorable," Narbeleth whispered to Hînaeryn, although she knew Oropher could hear. "You should get married."

"What?" Hînaeryn exclaimed as Oropher reddened. "You do not know what you speak of, youngling. What do you know of marriage?"

"Everything," Narbeleth said, with a dreamy smile. "That it is jaunty and beautiful, and you love each other very much. Oh! I cannot wait for the wedding! When will it be?"

"Not for many years yet." Hînaeryn was blushing so much that her ears were turning red.

Oropher bit his lip to hide his smile and spun around, fastening the jade brooch to his silver mantle. "Thank you for notifying me, Narbeleth, of this occurrence. I shall be going now."

Narbeleth grinned and curtsied. "It is a pleasure to serve you, my lord."

"It's _Your Grace_ , now, mind your words, Narbeleth." Hînaeryn strode forward to Oropher. "Let me fix your cloak, Your Grace," she said to him, smoothing it down. Oropher could see Narbeleth pretending not to notice and hurrying around behind her.

"Good luck, meleth nin," Hînaeryn told him, and brushed another quick kiss to his lips before stepping back.

"You will not be going?" Oropher asked.

"No," she said. "Go, now, or they will be cross with you."

"Good luck, Your Grace!" Narbeleth called as Oropher headed out the chamber with one last look at Hînaeryn before he disappeared into the corridor.

A dumb grin was still plastered on his face as he descended the steps to the council room. One of the two guards standing at the doorway gave him an odd look and the other one tried to remain indifferent, with not so much luck. Oropher sighed, and straightened his expression to be more regal, as Hînaeryn had told him to be. _Stop smiling,_ he scolded himself, and clicked open the door.

* * *

— _Artanis—_

Ost-in-Edhil lay where the rivers Sirannon and Glanduin met at the base of Hithaeglir. They had made the city Eregion's capital; the fashion of it reminded her vaguely of Eldamar and the dwellings there where her father and her mother and her brothers had all lived when they were still alive. Wasn't that funny, now? Her mother had refused to come with them and her father had left them when she and her brothers had gone on. And now they were all dead now—her brothers, Findaráto, Angaráto, Ambaráto—she had never felt so alone, even with Telepo.

She wavered a little as the cold wind blew across the cloister, the pen in her hand tearing through the brittle parchment. She was standing by the stone table overlooking the Glanduin River, her fingers so numb with cold that she could have been as icy as the table was.

There was a soft voice behind her, somehow heard in the gale. "Artanis."

She turned. "I use Sindarin now."

Tyelpe was standing there, his dark hair blowing across his face and his grey eyes troubled like clouds before a storm. "But you don't like that so much, do you?"

Artanis stiffened. "It is not in your place to question that."

He stepped forward a little to stand beside her. "What are you writing?"

"A poem."

"May I?" he asked.

She shrugged. "If you like."

Artanis handed the paper to Tyelpe, who took it and traced the words with his eyes.

"The long years have passed like swift draughts beyond the West beneath the blue vaults of Elbereth. Leaves fall and flowers fade that I have loved, and the land of my dwelling is filled with regret that no Spring can redress.

"For now all paths are drowned in shadow, and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us. Mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever, and Endorenna must fade and perish. If you must ask, I would have trees and grass about me that do not die—here in the land that is mine. But they have passed over the Sea with almost all fair things else. Thus farewell, I say unto you; farewell."

Tyelpe passed it back to her. "That was well-written."

Artanis dismissed the comment. "It is a first draft."

"And in Quenya," Tyelpe noted, sparking Artanis' irritation.

"Yes," she said impatiently.

He marked her discomfort and moved on. "What were you thinking about, just now?"

She looked down at the frozen river. "My brothers."

Tyelpe's lips moved, scarcely, as if to speak, but no words came.

"Not my father though, or my mother," she said. "I've almost forgotten about them. It's an odd feeling, that."

"I can understand how that feels." Tyelpe was staring off into the trees below.

Artanis bit her lip. "You know, I lost both Angaráto and Ambaráto at the same time. In the Bragollach. I just kind of. . .realized that. In a different way that I had never thought of before. You know what I mean?"

His reply was barely a murmur. "Yes."

"I think I was closest to Findaráto," she went on. "I remember when I was a child I would always go running to him when I needed something, and not my father. That's kind of odd, now that I think of it."

"Do you think you will return there?" he asked.

She knew what he meant. "No." She turned. "To go there is to seek pardon. What wrong have I done to ask for pardon?"

"You would not be content there," Tyelpe said.

Artanis let a small smile dance onto her lips. "You know me too well."

Tyelpe looked away, diverting his gaze to the frozen river again. "Endorenna must fade and perish—you wrote that in your poem."

She gave him a brief nod. "That is fate, I deem."

"Nelyo," he began, and Artanis stiffened. "He used to tell me: Ilyë nat qual." All things must die. "I think he knew—he must have known, for a while."

 _Known what?_ Artanis wondered, but she did not ask.

"Do you ever think about your father?" she said instead.

He barked a bitter laugh. "Not in the way of 'missing' him, if that's what you mean."

"Not at all. I think of Finarfin in some sort of a similar way."

Tyelpe glanced at her. "That's funny—we're quite alike." When she didn't answer, he went on. "Are you not cold?"

"No," Artanis said. She had suddenly realized that there were flecks of gold in his eyes.

He met her eyes, blue reflected in grey. "Hrívë's quite different in Eregion than Lindon, isn't it?"

"Yes," she whispered, all of sudden feeling the need to speak softly. He was very close to her now, and in her numbness, her mind thought nothing and acted upon urge and drive, the primitive way of being. Tyelpe's grey eyes seemed no longer stormy, but rather like a light fog mixed with morning dew in the lea. She could see herself in them, wan from the cold, her cheeks rosy. Yet that was not what surprised her; it was how different she looked from the last time she had glanced into a looking-glass. How ashen grey, how lifeless she looked. As a young elleth in Eldamar she remembered that she had been full of joy, of light. She wondered when she had lost that joy—she couldn't seem to recall.

Tyelpe was close enough that now she could see each individual lash upon his eyes, their noses almost touching. She parted her lips as if to speak, that small part of her rebelling against what it deemed wrong. She was—for a moment, if not more—unable to move nor speak; she was wholly struck in place by the suddenness and beauty of it all. Her mind lingered between the space of unformulated thought and instinct. . .wouldn't that have been beautiful if it were not tangled, jaunty, fake, wild, and lost too? Sometimes she didn't know anymore. She had stayed in Endorenna, but for what? Most of the time she was lying to herself, even in her thoughts. It had become custom to drink herself into oblivion with soothing lies like how you might spoon-feed honey to a child. _Look,_ she wanted to shout, _look at the snow._ But then all she saw were Tyelpe and his eyes, and what they held in the world.

Then suddenly Artanis jolted back, tripping on a stone. _What have I done?_

Tyelpe blinked, still enamoured. "Artanis. . ."

"No, no, no," she said, stumbling backwards. "Don't." She slipped a little, her breath short, and he caught her by the arm.

"Artanis," he whispered in her ear, "you know that I love you, though you turned to Celeborn of the Trees, and for that love I will do what I can for your grief to be lessened."

She stared up at him in astonishment, her mouth unable to form words. "Tyelpe. . .no. . ."

"I know," Tyelpe said sadly. "I'm sorry. I remember it too. In Eldamar, when we were only young children—"

"That all means nothing," Artanis insisted.

"Yes, that we both know."

Artanis stood, hastily dusting her dress off and drawing back. "Do not ever come so close to me again."

Tyelpe was all stoic duty now. "Undoubtedly, my lady."

"This never happened," Artanis said, disappearing into the maze of cloisters, but even then she could hear his voice coming from the frozen river—

"As you say, my lady."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Quellë._ (Q) Autumn.

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn._

 _No i brestanneth anírach tírad vi amar._ (S) Be the change you wish to see in the world.

 _Estelio nin._ (S) Trust me.

 _Meleth nin._ (S) My love.

 _Ilyë nat qual._ (Q) All things must die.

 _Hrívë._ (Q) Winter.

* * *

Artanis' revised poem that she sings in Lothlórien in the Third Age:

Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,  
 _Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind,  
_ yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!  
 _long years numberless as the wings of trees!  
_ Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier  
 _The long years have passed like swift draughts  
_ mi oromardi lissë-miruvóreva  
 _of the sweet mead in lofty halls  
_ Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar  
 _beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda  
_ nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni  
 _wherein the stars tremble  
_ ómaryo airetári-lírinen.  
 _in the voice of her song, holy and queenly._

Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?  
 _Who now shall refill the cup for me?_

An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo  
 _For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the stars,  
_ ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë  
 _from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds  
_ ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë  
 _and all paths are drowned deep in shadow;  
_ ar sindanóriello caita mornië  
 _and out of a grey country darkness lies  
_ i falmalinnar imbë met,  
 _on the foaming waves between us,  
_ ar hísië untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.  
 _and mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever.  
_ Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!  
 _Now lost, lost to those of the East is Valimar!  
_ Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar!  
 _Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar!  
_ Nai elyë hiruva! Namárië!  
 _Maybe even thou shalt find it! Farewell!_

* * *

 _A/n:_

 _Honestly guys, I don't ship Tyelpe/Artanis; it's just canon, I had to. A little bit of drama won't hurt, I hope. Yes, I know, I know. . ._

 _Also I translated that line 'ilyë nat qual' myself, so I'm not too sure the Quenya is right in terms of grammar and everything._

 _Thank you to the readers and reviewers!_


	13. Chapter XII

CHAPTER XII

* * *

— _Naergon—_

He had been riding for a few hours by now, and hoped to reach Harlond by the next night. It was not very far from Mithlond; only twenty-five leagues or so, but he was going slowly, trying to familiarize himself with the unwieldiness of the metal arm. He would have liked to take it off, yet he would have rather had it on for the sake of blending in to the others, and he knew he would have to get used to it sooner or later.

The roads in Lindon were not perilous in any way; the trade routes were under King Gil-galad's protection and there were stations with fresh horses along the way, yet he would have preferred not to interact with any others, and so he lit a small fire in the forest by the Gulf of Lhûn. He was thinking of how he somewhat enjoyed the peace here away from people or cities as he tended to the fire. The mob advancing on Híthriel's incident on Hithaeglir had become quite troublesome—perhaps he would go to Eregion sometime to escape the constant politics raging in Mithlond. He watched the blue waters and looked for the other side, but did not see it.

Sometime in the morning he mounted up again and rolled his right shoulder to get rid of the stiffness in his body. A grey mist was rising above the water, but his horse took no heed of it. He felt the moisture of the fog upon his face and glanced ahead. By nightfall he should reach the city.

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

"Ambarwen," her aunt Hînaeryn would always say to her mother, "little sister, why did you do that?" But Hînaeryn only said that when she thought Narbeleth wasn't listening. Her mother, Ambarwen, had always been a rash, reckless elleth, and her older sister Hînaeryn always had to reprimand her; their father had left them when they were only small children and her mother had been bedridden with an unspeakable illness that was so that they hid her away and spoke naught of her.

It was Hînaeryn who woke Narbeleth that morning. Yet really, Narbeleth had not been sleeping, but thinking. . .There was a place under the shade of oak and the shadow of a mountain, surrounded by a tangle of trees and gnarled undergrowth that she have not been to since she was eight or so.

In the winter there, the wind would shake the boughs so fiercely that they would grey and bare, yet when spring came, they returned with a canopy of golden poppies upon the rain-sodden earth. The poppies were her favorite of all, for their petals seemed to be so soft and delicate that she would never dare touch them, in fear that they would be broken. She liked to go there no matter if it was hot or cold and sit in the dirt, even though Hînaeryn always scolded her when she did so; Hînaeryn was obsessed with cleanliness and deemed that bugs were crawling beneath the very earth that Narbeleth lounged on, which was probably true.

She and her friends liked to pick sap from the trees and dare each other to lick it. She could remember when she used to be angry at a boy for striking a tree until the bark peeled for its sap. There were whispers amongst the schoolchildren that he would lick the sap straight off the tree like a savage. Narbeleth thought she might have witnessed it once for herself, but she couldn't quite remember anymore.

Yet there was one day after a long winter that she suddenly realized that most the poppies were gone and only a few bloomed when spring came. She could not remember this exact day, but somehow things had become blurred after then and she lost her bonds with this special place. About a year after, they moved away to a new foreign land, and she have never been back there ever since. She wanted to go back there, someday, but she didn't think it would be quite the same even if the poppies still grew there.

Hînaeryn came into the room loudly, the door creaking. She scowled at it, her hazel eyes indignant. "Get up. The neighbors are being bitches."

Narbeleth sat up. "What neighbors?"

"The new ones. The Tawarwaith." Hînaeryn was already heading out the corridor.

Narbeleth looked out the window to Oropher's tower. She dismally wished that Hînaeryn and him would get married _faster_ because then they could live together—but they were only courting. They had been courting for years now, so why not? They were evidently perfect for each other. All they told her was that she was only a little girl and didn't understand such things. _I understand it well enough,_ Narbeleth thought. _I pecked a kiss to that boy next door once._ She shook her head and went to dress.

After she had brushed her hair until it gleamed, Narbeleth bound her hair up in a crown braid, which took longer than she would have liked, then followed where Hînaeryn had gone. The corridor was dark; it had no windows nor any tapers to light the way, but the light could be seen at the end. Shortly she reached the chamber where Hînaeryn was hurrying around, preparing things. A grey light was shining in through the windows, Narbeleth saw, as she glanced around the room. It was considerably nicer than the last place they had lived in, as Oropher had insisted on it. Oropher had also insisted on having them live in the fortress with him, but Hînaeryn had starkly refused. She didn't want to be treated like she was incapable of taking care of herself.

"If you might be kind enough to help," Hînaeryn said, her teeth gritted.

"Oh. Right." Narbeleth hurried over, and Hînaeryn pointed at a pile of fabric.

"We have to dye all of that by—" Hînaeryn glanced quickly at the windows. "Sunrise! But it looks like that's already happened, so. Ha."

"Oops," Narbeleth said, already starting with the dye.

They did indeed run a small weaving shop, and it was hardly successful as most weaving shops were. Before, in Doriath, Hînaeryn had told Narbeleth, it was quite the same. Her older brother Églanim's abominations of ambitions were fruitless and futile; he had been a blacksmith's apprentice for some time, then run out of money and worked as an innkeeper. Shortly after he had opened the place, the Second Kinslaying had conveniently happened, and they were forced to flee the country.

The shop opened late—not like anyone would have noticed. Églanim was back in Harlond because apparently, according to Hînaeryn, he 'barely gave a shit about them and was a cynical son of a bitch'. But then again, weren't they all? It was the age after the Great Wars of Beleriand, after all. Narbeleth had not been old enough for them, but she had heard much of it. Even before Beleriand had been swallowed up by the wrath of the sea, the land had been left in ashes. Mounds and mounds of it, the people said, from all the cities and villages that they burned up and destroyed each other with.

Hînaeryn was in the back when the Silvan ellon came up to the stand. Narbeleth smiled at him but was afraid to talk, so she only said, "Suilanna. May I be of any help?"

The Silvan only stared at her. That was when she remembered that they spoke a different language.

"Ah," she said, awkwardly. She pointed at the raiment she and Hînaeryn had made the other day, and waved her hands at it in an attempt to convey her message. "Would. . .you. . .?"

The Silvan ellon tossed a few coins at her, snatched one of the things Narbeleth had been waving at, and left.

"I don't think they like us very much," Narbeleth said to Hînaeryn when she came back.

"No," Hînaeryn growled. "They don't." She glanced up at the sky. "Shouldn't you be getting to school?" Oropher had insisted on her training with the others even though they were hopelessly penniless.

"Is it that time already?" Narbeleth said innocently. She had wanted to help Hînaeryn more on the shop.

"Yes," Hînaeryn told her. "You better be leaving now, or you'll be late."

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

I drew the bowstring back, my arm shaking with the effort. It was a small bow, and the string was not very tight; it should not be so hard to wield it. I narrowed my eyes at the target before me—the thick bough of an oak tree, and prepared to loose the arrow. _One, two, thr—_

Suddenly a stabbing pain shot through my arm, and I gasped, the arrow wheeling far off the target.

" _Rhaich,_ " I hissed, trailing off in Quenya curses.

Again I snatched up the bow I had dropped on the ground and nocked another arrow from the quiver hung upon a tree beside me. I tried to focus my mind on the target and not the pain that liked to come knifing through me at the most unwanted times—yet to no avail. I could hardly concentrate on one thing; my arm was shaking and all I could see was the short-lived clouds that formed before my lips in the cold air.

At last I huffed angrily and threw both the bow and arrow to the ground. As customary, I took a long drink of the draft then stowed it back in my cloak, and suddenly taking note of Silivros' presence, I turned.

"If anything happens, it looks like you're going to have to defend me. I can hardly wield a bow." I bent down to shove the arrow back in the quiver.

Silivros was silent for a moment. "Please don't lose hope in yourself."

"I'm not losing hope, Silivros. I'm being realistic." I turned to him. "We're going much slower than we should be because I can barely even ride properly. We should be nearing Hithaeglir by now—"

"We are." Silivros flicked his eyes to the direction he had come. "I went to scout our path. We should be arriving in Eregion on the morrow. There you'll have some time to recover before we set off again."

I hated the word _recover_ to be used to describe me, and gritting my teeth, turned away to go retrieve the arrow I had shot into the trees.

He tried again. "Artanis might be able to help—"

"Silivros," I said, "it's all right. You don't have to do this for me. I know it's only that—" I sighed. "Don't mind me," I muttered. "Just—forget what I said." With no more I plodded down the undergrowth to the fallen arrow somewhere amidst all the foliage.

That night Silivros and I lit no fires; we could not risk being discovered in my 'state'. Who knew if those that had killed Saerin and Taeloth and the others at Hithaeglir were still lurking around? The mountains loomed above us like the shadows of those that had died—those that I had let die. I might as well have killed them myself, like how I had killed that little boy's father on the crag. I had not known what I was doing when I slit that man's throat, for I had been mad with grief and revenge.

 _Some terrible things drive you to do even more terrible things._ I wondered if I was just as terrible and cruel as my father. _Yes, you are. You killed a child's father, and you left him alive, because you knew that it would hurt, because you wanted them to hurt as much as you were._ _You're a selfish, cruel person, Híthriel. You do not deserve this._

That little child that Findekáno had rescued upon Lammoth was dead now; she had died long ago and become many things: a warrior, a captive, a slave, a spy, a lover, an assassin, a survivor—but all of those were dead too save the latter. _Who are you now? What have you become?_

 _No one,_ I wanted to tell myself. _I am no one, and I belong nowhere. I am a wanderer. . .[from Hithlum]. Do not tell me I am my father's child. Do not say that terrible omen to my face._

Yet in a secret, deep cavern of my heart, I knew, and I remembered.

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

"You must not look away, or else the Chieftain will know," Khamûl had whispered in her ear. "And if the Chieftain knows, then Alsyfleur the god of the earth will be angry." They had been burning the stag's carcass, and singing songs in the tongue of their people. The fire had been amber and great, and it smelled like the remains of eyes that the ravens liked to peck out of rotting corpses. The smoke and the ash had stung Taeloth's own eyes, and she had to fight to keep them open and fixed upon the ritual. Then after it all, the Chieftain coughed a little, and she remembered he was just a mortal human after all.

But that was more than a fortnight ago, and now the gloaming approached. She was now helping the women with the supper that they would be serving the men shortly, for they thought her to be only a young child of twelve or thirteen—they were unfamiliar with the aging of the Eldalië.

The Chieftain's first wife was in charge of it all; she was an older woman with aura of authority that demanded immediate obedience, and her very stance seemed to intimidate and threaten, for he had a habit of putting her hands on her hips in a way that made her seem angry all the time. Her hair was that of dirty blonde, bound upon her head in a messy braid, but what was most striking of all were her eyes—they were such a pale blue that it seemed almost silver, like a cloth that had been washed so many times that the color was leeched out of them. For that, her name was Blue, and the others hardly referred to her by any other name. Taeloth, for her part, translated the word to her dialect of Sindarin, altering the word slightly: _Luina._

Luina pointed at Taeloth with her left hand and stalked over to her; in her right was a still-wriggling fish, slimy and flopping from the river. She tossed the slimy fish in front of Taeloth, the thing flipping over three times before slapping down upon the wooden table. It struggled feebly, its mouth opening and closing, and Taeloth had to tear her eyes away from the grisly sight to look at the woman before her.

"Skin it," Luina said in the Easterling tongue. Taeloth had learned a few in the short time that she had been here, and 'skin it', 'stop it', and 'stab it' were amongst them.

She nodded duteously and went immediately to work, Luina sweeping away as swiftly as she had come. Taeloth wrinkled her nose at the nauseating smell of the dying fish that never went away no matter how much she was exposed to it, yet did what she was told.

When she had at last completed the task, she turned to snatch another one when Luina suddenly appeared at her side.

"No," Luina said. Taeloth knew that word too. "The Chieftain wants to see you."

But she did not know what those words meant then, so Luina had to gesture and squawk. When Taeloth still did not understand, she sighed in exasperation.

"Boy!" she shouted, and Khamûl came running.

"Take the girl to the Chieftain," Luina told him. "Quickly!"

Khamûl knew the Eldarin tongue for an unrevealed reason. "Come quickly," he said to Taeloth, "or the Chieftain will be angry."

"Where are we going?" Taeloth asked, standing stiff.

"There is no time to say," he said, pulling on her arm.

Taeloth relented then and followed him, wiping her hands, slimy from the fish, on her garb.

"It would be useful for you to learn our tongue," Khamûl said as he led her to the Chieftain's tent. "He will like you more if you do."

"Who?" Taeloth inquired innocently.

"The Chieftain," said Khamûl, impatiently. "Go now." He pushed her toward the tent.

"That one?" she asked.

"That one."

Taeloth drew in a breath and picked at the slime on her hands. They never seemed to come off. She would have to wash them in the river later.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn._

 _Tawarwaith._ (S) Another name for the Silvan Eldalië.

 _Suilanna._ (S) Greetings.

* * *

 _A/n: Haha yeah sorry for my salty commentary on WWI_


	14. Chapter XIII

— _Híthriel—_

It was raining. Light, morning rain that had dew forming atop the green leaves of trees and drizzled from the sky as a cleansing shower after a muddy trek. I tilted my head back, letting the rain flow down my face like tears. Perhaps it would be the last time I would feel such rain; I wanted to savor it as thoroughly as I could.

Silivros was riding beside me, his silver hair sodden, and the rain that dewed his brow looked more like perspiration than anything. He clutched onto his horse's reins tightly as if his fingers were about to fall off for some unknown reason, and stared straight ahead at the city ahead.

Eregion, the Land of Holly, was a league or so before us and, hence the name, surrounded by holly trees. They were very beautiful, especially in the rain, for they looked somehow greener with the droplets falling down upon them and sliding down their leaves that glistened in the grey morning. Red berries adorned them, the color as bright and rich as a warm hearth, and they were surrounded by the silver mist of mourning.

"A beautiful sight, isn't it?" I murmured.

Silivros glanced at me, suddenly aware of the trees. "Oh, yes. I've never seen _ereg_ before."

I was still smiling up at the rain. "There wasn't very much of it in Beleriand."

"No," he said, thinking. "It was mostly beech in Doriath."

"Did you live in Neldoreth there?" I asked. I had realized that I never knew.

"Yes," Silivros told me, "before the Bragollach. It lay between the banks of the Esgalduin and the Mindeb rivers that formed the northern and lesser part of the Kingdom. It was very beautiful. I lived with my sister there, but when I returned I could not find her. I never knew where she went."

My horse continued to plod forward. "What was her name?"

"Athaeben," Silivros said. "She was a kind elleth." He paused. "Sometimes I wonder where she is, if she survived the war. Sometimes I wonder what she would think of me now. A lot has happened since I last saw her. I have changed, maybe too much, since then."

 _I wish I could have known you better, before you were gone._ The words drifted into my mind like a smothered candle's smoke. "In Menegroth. . .the Kinslaying," I began. Silivros wasn't looking at me. "You were looking for the end, weren't you? So you could find your sister—Athaeben."

"Maybe," he said.

It was Tyelpe who found us at the gates. "Híthriel," he exclaimed incredulously. "Silivros. I did not know you were coming."

"We sent no word," I said, mounting off my horse in something more of a fall. "You would not have known."

Tyelpe called for the guardsmen to bring the horses away and Silivros handed them the reins. I straightened and stood, a little shakily on my feet.

"We make for Eryn Galen," I continued. "To Oropher." I had almost said Talethien.

"Apparently it is _King_ Oropher now," Tyelpe said, as we began to walk down the path. "He has named himself King of Eryn Galen."

"You sound scornful," I noted. Silivros, the only Sinda out of us all, walked in silence.

Tyelpe chose to ignore that. "I came from Lindon just not to long ago myself. You hadn't been there at that time either. . ."

"You must have overtaken us," I said cheerfully.

Unfortunately Tyelpe did not know what to say.

"Where is Lady Galadriel?" Silivros asked.

"Oh," said Tyelpe, suddenly avoiding all eye contact. It took him a moment to answer. "She and her lord husband are in a meeting with a Númenórean come from Númenor."

I chuckled, as if we were all still children. "You said Númenor twice."

"Did I?" Tyelpe rubbed his brow. "That's pitiful."

We all laughed at his interesting diction and the unease was disbanded for a moment.

"I'm supposed to be joining them, I think," Tyelpe said. "It might be good for me to."

"What is the name of this Númenórean?" Silivros inquired.

"Aldarion, he calls himself," Tyelpe told us. "Son of Tar-Meneldur, fifth King of Númenor himself."

I sighed. "I cannot keep track of all the kings of Númenor. They keep dying and changing."

"But there has only been five," Silivros jested.

"I'm sure you know them all, Tyelpe," I said. "We all know your. . .obsession with linguistics."

"Obsession sounds so intruding," Tyelpe said, frowning, then went immediately on to list them all. "One, Elros Tar-Minyatur, reigned from 32–442, two, Vardamir Nólimon, reigned in 442, three, Tar-Amandil, reigned from 442–590, four, Tar-Elendil, reigned from 590–740, and five, Tar-Meneldur Írimon, reigned from 740. You can stay in this room, Híthriel, and you this one, Silivros," he went on, as if that had never happened.

Silivros and I were laughing before he could even say anything else and Tyelpe looked as if he was ready to get drunk from nothing but embarrassment.

"Why did I do that," he muttered.

"Because you like it," I answered. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Tyelperinquar."

Now he was allowed the liberty of laughter. "No one _ever_ calls me that."

"It is only that you don't recall it," I said, and Silivros chuckled.

Later, when I was sitting by the window with the pen in my hand and looking at the holly that trembled in the wind that had picked up since the morning, I wondered if pretending to be cheerful would do me any better.

* * *

— _Naergon—_

The rain had left him sodden and grumpy and his horse weary. Harlond was a city quite unguarded; there were no gates nor guards anywhere save the citadel, so he made sure to pay the stable boy well as hopefully it would ensure his horse's security. He shuffled through the mud and to the inn, the door creaking as it was opened.

It was considerably warmer and drier inside, which might have helped his mood a little. Naergon approached the desk, but there was no one there to man it. He looked around although his eyes barely processed the sight and rang the bell noisily.

There was a crash and a squawk that Naergon paid no heed of, then a Sindarin ellon came hurrying up to the desk, his silvery blonde hair disheveled.

"Yes?" the apparent innkeep said, breathless.

"One room," Naergon told the Sinda. "I would prefer the top floor, if you please."

"Done," the innkeep said. "How long will you be staying?"

"That will depend on what happens in the next few days," Naergon said.

The innkeep stared dumbly at him. "Three days, then. Hopefully this amazingly popular inn won't flood with guests by then. Room thirty-one. Will you be wanting supper?"

Naergon glanced around the room. There was an elleth waiting patiently on a table, evidently for the pathetic innkeep, and some keeping sullenly to themselves, but others talking bawdy words and roaring with laughter. "Bread and wine, if you have it."

"We have some stew as well." The innkeep was scribbling furiously on a paper.

"That, too, then."

"I'll get that for you as soon as possible."

"Wonderful."

Naergon stalked off to his assigned quarters, the stairs creaking under his feet as he walked. Room thirty-one was at the corner of the third floor. He barred the door, lit the hearth, and warmed his hands after setting down his things by the cot. The fire seemed to form shapes and memories he didn't want to remember, so he looked away and went to the window. It was crusted in a thin layer of fog which he wiped off with the sleeve of his garb, and he wished that deciding was as easy to clear as wiping fog off the window.

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

"What is your name?" the Chieftain asked her. He was sitting before a rock something like a desk and large tapers lit the tent lavishly. The Wainriders were a nomadic people but lived somewhat sumptuously, especially the Chieftain; they had numerous oxen that drove the tents along rugged terrain and pastureland all the same.

She did not want him using her name. "Squab Pigeon-slayer," she said. It was true; the boys in Harlond had always called her that.

"Squab," the Chieftain repeated, frowning. "Very interesting. Where are you from, Squab Pigeon-slayer, and how old are you?"

"A little village in Lindon," she told him. "I'm twelve." _The best lies are the half-truths._ She didn't want to have to explain Eldalië aging.

"I see." The Chieftain nodded his head, considering. "You are strong and quick for that age."

"Thank you, my lord."

"I am no lord," the Chieftain said. "Only one who leads his tribe."

Taeloth didn't know what to say.

"So, Squab," the Chieftain began again. "Why did you kill that man?"

 _Saerin._ "They hated me in the village, all of them. They shunned me, they mocked me, they rejected me. They would have preferred me dead." She had to fight to keep her voice from shaking. "All only because my mother failed to be faithful and I was born a bastard child."

The Chieftain was smiling. "You are one like me."

Taeloth kept her eyes steely and steady, unwavering.

"I had to fight my way up to this position," he told her. "They did all the same to me that they did to you, yet perhaps not so bad. Your people are slightly more. . .severe on such matters, I'd say. Ironic, isn't it."

She said nothing.

"Twelve, you said."

She nodded.

Another peculiar smile curved onto his lips. "So young. And such pretty eyes. You best be training, if you want to stay. . .a maiden."

Taeloth knew she had to say something. "You will train me?"

"Gladly," the Chieftain said. "You _are_ a special one, you should know that. I have only met one other of your kind, the Eldalië." He sighed. "But she is gone now. They killed her, and I grew strong and fierce, then arose to be the leader of this tribe."

"The boy says that you are not the true Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders," Taeloth said.

"Oh, not yet." The Chieftain poured himself a cup of wine. "But I will be soon. That is why I need you—to help me conquer the tribes of the Wainriders under our dominion."

Taeloth tried not to show her surprise. It was dark outside, and the candles seemed to be casting strange shadows.

"It may seem that others are winning the game now, but we will soon rise." The Chieftain offered her the cup. "Wine?"

"No, thank you." She remembered not to say 'my lord'.

He took a sip of the wine himself then stood up, walking around his table toward her. "You are tall for your age."

"Eldalië often grow faster." The shadows on the tent seemed to be moving oddly now, creeping toward her like a panther preparing to strike. She tried to ignore it. _You're imagining it,_ she told herself.

"I see," the Chieftain said. "Do you accept me as your mentor and trainer, Squab?"

She clenched her jaw. "Yes."

A cold wind blew in through the flap of the tent, extinguishing a candle. The Chieftain smiled, and this time Taeloth felt that it might have been genuine. "Good. I will expect to see you at dawn tomorrow."

The shadow seemed to grow larger and _move_ out of the darkness. Another candle was smothered by the wind. The Chieftain turned to see what Taeloth was gaping at just as the creeping panther leaped out of the gloaming, hissing like a viper. It was a man, and suddenly the Chieftain's face was sliced open and she was staring at his cold, dead eyes, a dirk protruding out of his ribs.

She stumbled back, falling on her rump as the man turned his gaze on her. He slid the scarlet dirk cleanly out of the Chieftain's back and let his body thump to the ground, as if he had already forgotten about it. Taeloth fumbled for her dagger, then realized that she had left it with the fish she had gutted at Luina's command. The man took a few steps forward when suddenly the flap of the tent was ripped open.

"Uncle, leave her," Khamûl said. "She is a friend."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ereg._ (S) Holly.

* * *

 _A/n: Hope you enjoyed that slight Game of Thrones reference ;)_


	15. Chapter XIV

CHAPTER XIV

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

Narbeleth ran. She liked to think she could run as fast as a stag, or the wind, even; she wished she could be the wind and run away whenever she liked. How she _hated_ the other children—why they were like that, she didn't know. Why couldn't they simply accept her?

Before she even knew it, she was climbing up the steep stairs to the top of the citadel tower, and even when her legs burned she refused to stop. Then at last she came to the summit and clung onto the side of the tower, breathing hard and looking down upon the city. Her mind was reeling and her thoughts were spinning around her, disoriented and lost. _You're too old for running away from things like that,_ she scolded herself.

When her breathing had calmed, she stepped closer to the side and peered down, now truly taking in the sight of the city. Her shoes made her feel uncomfortable so she kicked them off and put them carefully by the foot of the stairs before turning back to the brink. She sat down upon the smooth stone surface, letting her legs dangle over the edge.

"You're such a stupid, stupid girl," she said aloud.

But then again, Narbeleth thought everyone was quite stupid at times, including Hînaeryn, maybe even Oropher. At that she smiled for the prospect of their betrothal. She looked around the city to find Hînaeryn's little weaving shop and spotted it in the distance—it looked even smaller from so high.

An argument from below caught her attention. It was a few blocks away from Hînaeryn's shop, and was between what looked like the Sindar and the native Tawarwaith. Narbeleth squinted to see. She couldn't hear very much, but they were shouting and pointing at things angrily.

Narbeleth sighed. She wished they would all just get along. The Sindar and the Tawarwaith really were not so different. Although she was struggling with learning the Tengwar, for she and Hînaeryn had never had the luxury to learn, she resolved to learn the Silvan language so she could speak to them, and they would all communicate better. _If only they were able to communicate._

She decided that going back down to help Hînaeryn with the shop would do more good than simply sitting there, and stood up from her perch. Bracing her hands against the wall, she slipped into her shoes and padded lightly down the steps, careful not to alert anyone of her presence. It might have been too much to suffer another embarrassment, to come upon anyone that had seen her running.

Yet when she came to the bottom, she found Oropher coming by the path and decided that her curiosity would go better answered. She approached and granted him a gainly bow.

"Your Grace," Narbeleth said, after Hînaeryn's model.

Oropher did a mock scowl. "Not you too."

Narbeleth gasped. "That's not a very kingly thing to say."

"I do not think I am a very kingly person," Oropher said. "How is Hînaeryn?"

A smile crept mischievously onto Narbeleth's face. "Wonderful. But she would be more with you."

Oropher turned red. "Do all nieces press their aunts in romantic relationships like this?"

"No," Narbeleth said. "Only me." She gave him another triumphant smile. "I have a question, Your Grace."

The unkingly king of Eryn Galen gave her a questioning look. "What is it?"

"Why do we hate each other so much? The Tawarwaith and the Sindar?"

Oropher sighed. "There are many reasons. What I can tell you in simple terms for this situation is that. . .their Queen wants to blend and trade with us but their people wish to remain independent. Of course, there are ways to remain independent while adopting the culture, but that is not what they wish."

"Oh," Narbeleth said.

"People all want their own gains," Oropher told her, and they spoke a little more of trivial things until Narbeleth said that she had to go help Hînaeryn with the shop. She went off before Oropher could say another word which was not very ladylike of her, but she had to.

Hînaeryn was working sullenly at the stand but when she saw Narbeleth, she smiled.

"Good morrow, Narbeleth," Hînaeryn said.

"It's evening already," Narbeleth pointed out.

Hînaeryn shook her head in astonishment. "I've been saying that all day. . .perhaps that is why no one dares come to this shop."

Narbeleth smiled a little and went to stand beside her aunt. "Oropher says that the Tawarwaith don't want to stay but their queen does. Why do we all hate each other so much, Hînaeryn?"

"Everyone has their own problems and stories and histories." Hînaeryn was sewing furiously, not looking at Narbeleth. "It's a complicated matter. I've learned to defend myself from them—those that hate."

Narbeleth glanced at the sky. "It's nearly sundown. Shouldn't we be closing?"

"Right. Yes," Hînaeryn said hastily. She set her needle down. "I'll bring the table in, you watch the stuff."

The girl nodded and Hînaeryn went hurriedly inside. The sky was painted with such smeared hues of orange and pink that they began to look brown, Narbeleth noticed, as she gazed up at the gloaming. She was so entranced by it that she did not notice the group of Sindarin ellyn that staggered up to the stand, their breath the stench of drunkenness, until they broke the glass.

Narbeleth stood up suddenly, and was about to call for Hînaeryn when one of the ellyn grabbed her arm.

"Where are you going, sweetling?" the Sinda drawled.

Narbeleth thought of Hînaeryn's words. _It's a complicated matter. I've learned to defend myself from them—those that hate._ But she couldn't think of any words to say. Maybe she was just a little child after all.

When Narbeleth didn't reply, the group of ellyn laughed bawdily.

"Lost?" the ellon asked, his voice honey-sweet. "Why, isn't that a pity."

 _Why do we hate each other so much?_

"No," Narbeleth whispered, the sound more like a whimper.

The ellon seemed astonished that she had spoken. "No? Then why isn't your valiant prince, coming to save you, sweetling?"

"I—I don't—"

"Let go of her," Hînaeryn said, appearing through the doorway.

The group of ellyn leered at her, laughing.

 _Why do we hate each other so much?_

"What will _you_ do?" the ellon said. "Come closer, if you dare."

Hînaeryn strode forward and stared at the ellon straight in the eyes. He was a foot taller than her, and considerably bigger, but even then Hînaeryn somehow seemed to be intimidating.

"Let. My. Niece. Go." Hînaeryn refused to break her steely gaze.

The ellon laughed nervously, unhanding Narbeleth, who stumbled back trembling, and reached instead for Hînaeryn. "How lovely—"

Hînaeryn struck him in the face.

The ellon doubled back, clutching the left side of his face, astonished. "You dare—"

Hînaeryn struck him again, this time harder.

"Get out," Hînaeryn ordered, pointing at the darkening street. "You will get out, and never return here. Now."

 _Why do we hate each other so much?_

The ellon stumbled back to his group, who all slunk away into the streets. Hînaeryn stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips even long moments after they disappeared, then turned to Narbeleth.

"Are you all right?" Hînaeryn asked her.

Narbeleth nodded.

 _Why do we hate each other so much?_

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

The night was filled with cooking fires and bawdy laughter. All around there were tribesmen singing and cheering to the victory. Khamûl looked uncomfortable but he plastered a smile on his face as his uncle raised him up on his shoulders, whooping. The conquered tribespeople, in fact, did not look to be too upset when their chieftain was killed; Luina worked just the same, ordering Taeloth to gut the fish and serve the men. The only one that seemed to care of the chieftain's death was his daughter, who was red-eyed and sniffling. They had stuck the chieftain's head upon a stick in the center of the campfire, the skin slowly peeling and blackening until it was hardly identifiable. The daughter cried and wept every time someone made a comment about it, but they could not tell whether they were tears of happiness or sorrow.

Taeloth and the other women sat aside at a smaller fire, reasonably quieter than the men. A few of the older women were chuckling to themselves while tearing off pieces of meat with their teeth as the younger ones squealed and gossiped. Others were in sullen silence—a woman of about thirty-five was comforting the daughter, still shaking with undecipherable sobs. Taeloth herself was observing everyone while trying not to vomit at the sight of the chieftain's decapitated head.

Khamûl's uncle—rising to be the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders—was a big man with a coarse dark beard and a fierce face; even his laughs seemed to be aggressive. When Taeloth looked more carefully at his face, however, she thought there was some sort of sadness in them that he was hiding beneath all the fierceness. His eyes were dark like his beard as if he was trying to conceal everything else save that darkness, because the darkness—that cold merciless darkness—was the only reason that they made him their leader.

Luina barked something at Taeloth, and although she couldn't decipher what she was saying over the clamour, she saw the pot of stew she was pointing at and went to go retrieve it. It was a large pot; Luina only needed help getting it over to the other cooking fire where the Grand Chieftain sat, not to have Taeloth do it all by herself.

Struggling with the weight of the pot, Luina and Taeloth stumbled over to the men and dumped it before Khamûl's uncle, who clasped his hands together in approval.

"Marvelous!" he exclaimed, and clapped Khamûl on the back so hard Khamûl choked on his wine, nearly falling over. It was custom for the Wainriders to have a toast at feasts, no matter their age.

Taeloth went back and asked Luina if there was any water she could drink. Luina grunted and shoved a cup into her hands then turned and stalked away. It wasn't until Taeloth had drank a few large gulps that she realized that it was not water, but some sort of mead. She was too thirsty to complain, and downed the rest of it in moments.

When the food was mostly eaten, the Grand Chieftain stood and clapped his hands so loudly that even the daughter ceased to weep. Everyone was suddenly silent and looking at him, wanting to know what he had to say.

"It may be known to you all the purpose of my bringing together of all of you," the Grand Chieftain began. Khamûl was listening intently by his side, although he looked a little dizzy from the wine.

"It has long been the wish of us all to unite the Wainriders under one banner—the banner of the Grand Chieftain. And this, I say, is my goal: to build a great empire of Wainriders that will triumph over all. I am the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, and I will lead all of you to victory!"

"Victory!" the tribesmen cheered. "Victory!"

"One by one, we will unite the tribes of the Wainriders, and we will have victory!"

The night was alive with the shouting and whooping of the tribespeople, so strong they might have mounted a forest of spears. Taeloth saw that Khamûl was not joining in the chant, however; he seemed to be overwhelmed by it all, for he was staring in awe at his uncle and the old chieftain's smouldering head in the fire. Then his lips moved, barely, and he was saying the words too— _victory, victory, victory._

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

Silivros and I left Eregion at dawn so as to have as many hours of light as possible. In our short stay at the city, I had barely seen Artanis nor Tyelpe after the first day. Artanis seemed to be avoiding me, in fact, whilst Tyelpe was busy with work—he ran the trading system with the Naugrim and had, apparently, formed a guild called Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the People of the Jewel-smiths. The Gwaith-i-Mírdain were said to be the most talented artisans to have worked since the time of Fëanáro himself, who ironically was Tyelpe's grandfather.

Some time before we departed the city I had looked through a little more of the memoir I had been writing. I felt a melancholic nostalgia when I read it, and at times I liked to read the happy parts when it was just my family and I sitting around a warm fire, talking. _I should have treasured those moments more when I had them._

"Leaving so quickly?" Tyelpe had asked when I went to tell him of it.

 _Perhaps it is because I feel I don't have much time left._ "I have to tell him in person. It would be cruel to not do so." We all knew 'him' was Talethien—Oropher—and because the news of his niece's death had already gone to Amon Lanc, the rest was left unsaid.

And now I was riding there, to Eryn Galen. It hadn't rained very much during our stay in Eregion, but now the rain began to fall again, though a little harsher than when we had first come. Once or twice my horse stumbled and slipped into the mud, but the rain paid no heed and continued to shower down upon the land.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Elleth._ Female Elda, plural _ellith_.

 _Ellon._ Male Elda, plural _ellyn._

* * *

 _A/n: I'm wondering_ — _what do you think of Hînaeryn?_


	16. Chapter XV

CHAPTER XV

* * *

— _Naergon—_

The bread was lumpy and the wine too watered. Naergon ripped a piece of the bread off with his teeth, almost certainly looking more aggressive than he was trying to be all only because the bread was so stale and hard. He chewed it carefully, being careful not to swallow too much at a time, yet failed anyway, forcing him to drink a long gulp of the watered wine to hide his coughing. On top of that, the room was too warm although the fire on the hearth was dead—the innkeep was clearly not doing his job very well and instead flirting with the girl giggling in the corner. No wonder his silly inn was so 'unpopulated'. In truth it might have been more like a brothel.

Naergon was giving so much effort to chew his bread that his jaw was beginning to ache. Resigning from that tedious task, he threw the stony bread onto his plate then decided to sip on his wine and glare at the innkeep until he served him some better bread. Of course, the innkeep paid him no heed, so instead Naergon went over to the desk and rung the bell.

The innkeep glared at Naergon and motioned for him to go over to his own little corner where he was flirting with the girl. Naergon pressed his lips together and marched over, seating himself directly in front of the innkeep and his giggling girl.

"Yes?" the innkeep said, slightly annoyed. That made Naergon even more annoyed, because in fact it was _him_ that had the right to be annoyed at such terrible service.

"How old is the bread?" He had not meant to say that, but the words had come out anyhow.

The innkeep scowled. "Freshly bought."

His girl giggled.

"Really." Naergon leaned closer. "I don't buy that."

The innkeep snorted. "If you've come over here to bother me, I suggest—"

"Oh, no, I did not come for that. I am a little new to Harlond, so I may need some assistance in navigation."

The innkeep raised his eyebrows in an expression of _go on_.

"I am looking for a blacksmith called Églanim."

Some unfathomable response flickered in the innkeep's eyes, and he looked at Naergon and his newly forged arm, as if seeing him for the first time. Then that sentiment in his eyes was gone, and he pushed the girl off his lap, now focusing wholly on Naergon.

"Later." The innkeep spoke sideways to the girl, never looking at her.

Naergon waited for his response patiently, folding his hands best he could before him.

"I'm Églanim," the innkeep said.

Naergon was taken by surprise. He had not expected the ellon to have forged his metal arm for him to be a penniless innkeep flirting with a giggling girl in his own inn during work hours—in other words, he had expected him to be a stately ellon.

"So you are the friend of Lady Híthriel, then." The innkeep, Églanim, had his gaze still fixed on Naergon.

"Yes," he said, "and you are the blacksmith who forged this arm."

"I see we both know each other." Églanim licked his lips. "What is your name?"

"I am called Naergon," he told the Sinda. "And I wonder, how did you come to know Lady Híthriel?"

"There was a slight incident in Doriath in which she killed some people for me," Églanim said.

"The Kinslaying?"

"Obviously." The words were clipped and each syllable pronounced with a sharp edge.

 _Well, wasn't that interesting._ "I see."

"And how came you to know her?" Églanim inquired.

"A slight incident in Gondolin." Naergon had to fight back a mad bark of laughter at the absurdity of the memory.

"Hm," Églanim said. "So what have you come to me for?"

"I'd like to learn some of the art of smithery," Naergon told him.

Églanim was taken aback. "And you would like _me_ to instruct you?"

"Yes."

The Sinda considered that. "I suppose."

Naergon clasped his hands together and stood up. "Wonderful. I shall be seeing you in the morning."

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders had his nephew betrothed to the dead chieftain's teary-eyed daughter to fortify the bond between the two tribes that he deemed necessary to meld. They were both the same age of eleven and equally uncomfortable with the situation. Khamûl had put on his bravest face and accepted the proposition as the daughter sobbed, never speaking a decipherable word.

Taeloth had stood stony-faced by Luina who always wore the same expression that was somehow bored and annoyed at the same time. Taeloth watched without saying a word, as she always did. For now, staying silent and unseen would be better for her until she trained and grew stronger. She would ask Khamûl if his uncle would train her in the arts of a warrior, and she would prove to them all that she could be just as strong and fierce as they were. It was culture for the Wainriders to train every single one of their tribesmen, in fact—if you were weak, you died. Only the strongest survived. Perhaps if his uncle refused she would ask Khamûl himself to sneak her some lessons.

Khamûl was with his brother now, who was around fourteen and the illegitimate child of his father that had died upon Hithaeglir. The daughter was still crying and Luina was still wearing the same indifferent expression. The other women were whispering to each other, both the old and the young, and the woman that had been comforting the daughter stood stiffly to the side by Taeloth.

She glanced up to the sky—it had begun to drizzle a little. A raven fled, screeching, into the air and the sudden scuffle of wings caused a few other smaller birds to scatter. She wished now she had wings so she could fly away like the raven, free. She wondered now how she was going to get back to Lady Híthriel and the others; it seemed like it would be a long time from now.

* * *

— _Oropher—_

"Is this how you plan to dance for the rest of our lives? Dress me up like a lady and pretend I am one of your highborn ellith?" Hînaeryn said. "Though I have to admit, this dress is quite nice."

It was the indeed night of Tarnin Austa, and they were dancing together in the corner of the hall. With Hînaeryn in a pretty gown, no one looked twice, thinking she was a lady of the court.

"I am glad you like the dress." Oropher would have preferred to avoid the more dour topics for the night of the festival.

"Narbeleth loved hers," Hînaeryn said, glancing at the girl laughing gaily at the other side of the hall. "Violet is her favorite color."

"I chose it myself," Oropher said proudly. "You see, I am not so bad at coordinating colors."

Hînaeryn smiled. "You _have_ , in fact, gotten better at this in the years that I have known you. Would you say I'm a good teacher?"

"Oh, yes. A spectacular one. You'll need to teach me how to weave soon."

She rolled her eyes. "Anyone can weave."

Oropher had to smile at that. "Unfortunately, I've never learned."

"What a spoiled prince."

They both chuckled at that, Hînaeryn laughing so hard that she choked on her laughter. Oropher snorted and handed her a glass of wine.

"Your cheeks are flushed," he commented.

"Hm? Maybe because it's hot in here. . .let's go outside." Hînaeryn gave him a coy smile.

Oropher laughed and took her hand. "As you wish, my lady."

He thought he saw something flicker in her eyes at that, but she took no notice of it and instead marched out of the hall with a fleeting glance at Narbeleth.

"The city's pretty at night, isn't it?" Hînaeryn said.

It was true; the lights from below scintillated mirrored the lights from above like lanterns. "Yes, it is." Oropher turned to her. "Did something happen at the shop the other day?"

She narrowed her eyes then sighed in exasperation, already sensing how he knew. "Perhaps a little skirmish."

"Hînaeryn, I really wish you would—"

"No. I will not be handed wealth and riches like a slobbering courtesan," she said. "That would be the worst fault I will ever have known, if I had consented to it."

Oropher bit his lip. "That is not what I'm talking about."

"You know very well that it is."

He did not know what to say. "It would be better for Narbeleth. She's only a child."

Hînaeryn sighed. "I know—I know. But what kind of. . .person would I be to feed her lies like this?"

"These are not lies, Hînaeryn. It is for her own good. If what is between us is true and profound, they are very well not lies."

"What would I do, then? Become your lady?" she said.

"My lady wife," Oropher told her. "Why should we care of the traditional classes of the Eldalië? If I love you, I should do well to marry you. We can rule this realm side by side, and fear nothing."

At that Hînaeryn had to bite her lip to pretend to not smile. "You may or may not be convincing me."

"Don't you remember those stories all Sindar were told when we were children? This is just like that. We must take the opportunity for our own."

"Those are just stories."

"But not now," Oropher said. "It is real. Look." He took her hand. "Am I not right here in front of you?"

She abandoned the bogus indifference and broke into a smile. "You are." She leaned forward and kissed him, deeply. Oropher laughed onto her lips and leaned into the kiss, breathing in her scent, wanting to stay together like this forever.

They broke away upon the tap on the windowpane that came from a little away from them, not wanting to leave each other's warmth.

The queen of the Tawarwaith was standing at the doorway. "May I have a word with you, Your Grace?" Her Sindarin was heavily accented with the Silvan tongue, learned from the traders that had come from the routes to their lands.

Oropher, surprised, nodded, and turned to Hînaeryn. "I will see you later, meleth nin," he said to her. She beamed, suddenly unafraid of the people's views of her, and brushed past the queen, who gave a her haughty glance as she left.

"Take a seat," the queen said, sliding into the chair by the window. "I think this will be a lengthy discussion."

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

Although we were a score of leagues or more from where Saerin and Taeloth had died, Hithaeglir was still a daunting mountain chain to cross. I was glad that Hrívë had not yet come; the snow would have made it nearly impossible to cross in my 'condition'. We were going through the Redhorn Gate, a narrow and perilous pass through the mountains that led from the wilds of Eriador through to Rhovanion beyond; it climbed across the southern slopes of Caradhras and led down into the Dimrill Dale and hence the Vale of Anduin beyond. It was, probably, the most convenient way to get past the mountain, as going underground through the mines of the Naugrim may have been slightly more complicated.

Silivros seemed to be considerably distracted since we had began the ride to Eryn Galen. He was riding now like how he had when we were approaching Eregion—clutching his horse's reins more tightly than necessary and staring straight ahead. I decided to relieve him of whatever tension he was feeling with a distraction.

"Have you been to Eryn Galen?" I asked him.

He jumped again, surprised. "No, not since it was established only a few years ago. Though I do somewhat know Lord Oropher in person—oh you do know that, don't you?"

"Ah, yes." I had nearly forgotten that they had met, in fact, during that incident in Doriath. When Talethien—Oropher—and I had gone to Menegroth and into the citadel to end it for good, I had found Silivros dying in the blood-stricken corridors and ordered Oropher to bring him back with the other fleeing refugees. " _You were right. . ." The voice was terrible, a rasping, dying breath. "I should not have come back. . ."_ Then I had gone on alone, to find nothing but ruin and death. Oropher himself had killed Curvo because I could not, even after all the terrible deeds that he had wrought. It was then I remembered that Oropher did know about the necromancy that I had used to bring Silivros away from death that time in Doriath.

"I've heard it's nice there," Silivros said lamely. "The capital, Amon Lanc, is said to be in the south of the country. It is near the Anduin River and the realm of Lothlórien, ruled by the Sinda Amdír."

"Interesting how they took over the Nandor with barely a fight, isn't it?" I noted. "Their culture has quite blended now, and the language."

"True," Silivros said. "I suppose they enjoyed the exchange." He turned to me. "I recall you being Noldorin—when did you learn the Sindarin tongue?"

"When Thingol made Quenya speakers criminals," I jested. "Actually I was brought up with both tongues at the same time."

"I'd like to learn some Quenya," Silivros mused. "I think it's quite. . .sophisticated to be bilingual."

I had to laugh at that. "I suppose. Which words would you like to learn?"

"I guess the simple ones first—what is the Quenya equivalent of _mae govannen_?" he asked.

"That would be _vandë omentaina_ ," I told him. He repeated the words, and I laughed at his Sindarin accent on the Noldorin words.

"What if I wanted to say _man eneth lín?"_ Those were the words that could be roughly translated to 'what is your name?'

" _Mana esselya,_ " I said. "Quenya and Sindarin have the same origins, so some of the words are similar."

"No wonder Lord Celebrimbor is so obsessed with linguistics," Silivros remarked, and we both laughed.

We spoke a little more of that and I taught him a substantial amount of Quenya although he kept forgetting the words, which really said how long we had been riding for. When nightfall came, we rested at a tangled cluster of trees that provided just enough shelter from the wind, but because it was dry and the wind strong, we dared light no fire.

In the heights of Hithaeglir, the starry night sky was clearer than it had been in Lindon. For many hours I lay awake, watching them. Unlooked for, my mind strayed to the stars that Maedhros and I had gazed at in Himring, before he had gone. Now that I think of it, it was like a tradition for us to go out to the March every fortnight and lie there upon the grassy hills to stargaze. The name _Maedhros_ meant pale glitter after all, like the wan sprinkle of light on a dark canvas. I used to tell him that—originally I had thought that it was a combination of his amilessë Maitimo and his epessë Russandol, but in fact it was also Noldorin. Perhaps he had meant it to be an integration of the two, making it a name too perfect to not choose. I would never know now, but that was all right.

Then in the candor of my reverie, I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of pensive skies.

When I woke, sweating, in the dead of the night, I thought I could hear the howling of wolves and vultures circling from above. The scar was exploding with pain. I choked on the blood welling up in my throat and threw myself over, coughing it up over the ground. My eyes dilated with sudden terror at the sight of the blood—it was not wholly red but tinted with clumps of the black ungolócë.

When the trembling ceased to be so violent, I lifted my head weakly to find Silivros before me. He had a scarlet gash on his forearm, but seemed to not notice it was there.

"Sor— _cough_ —ry. Did I. . .?" I motioned my hand to the wound.

"No. A branch," he said. "Are you—"

"Don't." I stayed him with a hand. "Don't touch my blood. It might be. . ." I broke down into another fit of coughing.

Silivros went around the pool of blood for my pack where the draft was.

"You best— _cough_ —bind your arm— _cough_ —just to be sure. . ." My hand grabbed for the draft and poured it down my throat. It didn't do very much to help.

Silivros had done his best to keep the shock out of his eyes but his horror was still prominent. Before we had left Eregion, I had glanced in the looking glass to see the full extent of the black scar that stretched from my shoulder to my hip, black spidery streaks like cracks in a mirror creeping from it and extending all over my hröa. It was hideous, I knew, and frightening. When the scar had first been made, blood and pus had seeped from the wound for many fortnights along with a grotesque inky fluid, which I now bled internally. The streaks would extend to my neck and my face soon, and I would be marked visibly with the atrocity of my being.

And in my mind the vultures were circling the sky, waiting.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn._

 _Meleth nín_. (S) My love.

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit, plural _fëar._

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body, plural _hröar_.

 _Ataressë._ (Q) Father-name of Noldorin culture.

 _Amilessë._ (Q) Mother-name of Noldorin culture.

 _Epessë._ (Q) Chosen name of Noldorin culture.

 _Mae govannen._ (S) Well met.

 _Vandë omentaina._ (Q) Well met.

 _Man eneth lín?_ (S) What is your name?

 _Mana esselya?_ (Q) What is your name?


	17. Chapter XVI

CHAPTER XVI

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

She could barely recall that a moon had passed since the hunt of the stag and her begetting day had come and gone sometime during that time. Perhaps once she would have cared, yet none of that mattered now; tonight the moon was full and wan—the time had come. The night was filled with the smoke of torches and incense and the call for the darkness within each individual's heart.

The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders stood menacingly at the edge of the clearing near the darkening forest, his steely eyes raking over the gathering hunters. There was no need for him to do anything in particular to give off the mien of importance and status; he was adorned with no crown, no jewelry, no excessive ornaments like rings or such—simply him standing there would drive the others into obedience. He was, in fact, overseeing the preparation for the monthly hunt. The Atani had differing ways of counting the time than the Eldalië; they used months, not seasons. For these short intervals the Eldalië called them _moons_ , because the moon waxed and waned in such a period.

Then the host was ready, and the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders mounted up on his stallion and called out a great cry that rallied his people to him like how iron filings go to magnets. Taeloth had gone to him before the rally to beseech her going with them, but he had merely laughed. _We all go, together,_ he had told her. _As one. Beating as one heart. That is what the Wainriders are. Not scattered, divided. We are a united people, and we will fight alongside each other and die alongside each other._

In the middle of the hectic labyrinth of hunters, Khamûl had somehow appeared next to Taeloth on her foal. Khamûl himself was mounted on a mare much too massive for him to possibly control, although somehow he was managing to handle the horse. He looked terribly frightened in the flaring torchlight circling around them and the thunderous pounding of hooves on earth, and just a little child after all.

"What are you doing here?" Taeloth said sharply. "Should you not be with your uncle?"

Khamûl hesitated, as if choosing the words he wanted to say. _He should be,_ Taeloth thought. _I have every right to be angry at him._ He opened his mouth, and Taeloth saw his mouth move in the action of speech, but she could hear nothing of what he said in the clamour. Soon she lost him in the wave of hunters riding past and ahead of her, so she put it aside and spurred her foal forward, but she could never catch up.

* * *

— _Silivros—_

There was a patch of snow a little higher up the mountain, and when Silivros squinted at it he could see the bones of a stag lying there, crumbling. Strips of rotting flesh still clung onto the remnants of the beast's ribs and its eyes had been pecked out by the scouring vultures and ravens. The antlers were jutting out in stark contrast to the snow that covered most of its body upon which a black-cloaked raven perched, silent and brooding. His head was turned to the side, his crimson eyes unmoving, then he lowered his head as if he too was mourning.

Silivros glanced back at the shelter they had made the night before; they had not left it ever since Híthriel's scar had considerably worsened. It was near gloaming of the next day and she was hardly nearing any improvement. He was going out to the small streams for fresh water now—they trickled down the brinks of some ledges from the glaciers above, hidden in the vast grey clouds. He found a little waterfall seeping from the edge of a bank and promptly filled his canteens with it, then turned to go back to the shelter. Something glinting on the grass caught his attention however; he bent down to peer at it then realized it was only a drop of water from the rain before.

Híthriel had seemed to be sleeping when he returned to the shelter yet when he drew near she opened her eyes and stared past him with a muddled look as if she did not see him.

" _Mae,"_ she whispered. "Mae. I dreamt of vultures and of wolves. Are they coming for me?"

Silivros didn't know what to say. He thought the hallucinations would have gotten better by now, for her fever had gone down somewhat, yet evidently nothing had changed. One time she had awoken screaming something in the tongue that he did not understand—the tongue of her people that was ebbing away.

"No," he told the dying elleth. "They are not. Not for you."

Nonetheless she seemed not to hear and continued on. "Findekáno. . .he told me once. . .he told me that I was afraid of his death. _Don't be,_ he had said. _Life and death is just like sleeping and waking. Death is nothing to fear—it is merely a time of rest. Then I will wake again, and there a new life will begin. You aren't afraid of sleeping, are you?_ He used to call me _titta nettë,_ even in front of all his generals. Isn't that silly, now? I can remember the words. . .I can remember the words. . ."

Silivros went and retrieved the silver flask from the ground where it had fallen and offered it to her.

"But how can I rest when I have done so much _wrong?"_ Híthriel murmured. "I have failed you, I have failed you all." She pushed the flask away. "No. I do not want it. I need to feel the _pain_ of all that I have done."

He went hopelessly to the water he had fetched and tried to present it to her. "The water will help, if you do not want the other."

Wordlessly, she took the canteen, her hand trembling and her fingers threatening to let it crash to the ground. Silivros looked away—he could hardly bear the sight of someone who had been so different to fall into this state. It made him think of his sister. _No. I must stay strong,_ he told himself. _We must get to Eryn Galen._

He caught the canteen just before it fell from her fingers and corking it, set it aside. "We will get there," he told her, although he knew she could not hear. "We will."

Híthriel made no comprehensible reply save a cough.

Silivros turned to the lightly burning candle in the center of the shelter he had brought from Eregion and began to tend to the wound on his forearm he had received from yesterday. In fact, he did not recall receiving it, but had only noticed it when Híthriel had pointed it out. _A branch,_ he'd said. He hoped that was the case. Slowly, he unraveled the binding and sniffed at the wound. It smelled and looked all right; it probably would not take on an infection.

He glanced back at Híthriel, whose eyes were closed again, although he knew she was not sleeping. Her laboured breathing was a terrible sound like the screeching of crows that never ceased to stop, and even when he went away from the camp he could still hear it echoing in his ears, a dire omen. Yet if it was an omen, he did not know what to make of it.

There was a spasm in the eerily monotonous sound of laboured breathing; she had coughed again, so Silivros turned to hand her the canteen of water again. But she did not stop coughing, not until a trickle of blood began to seep out of the corner of her mouth. Silivros went forward to steady her yet there was a sudden violent convulsion and she spit the blood before her.

Then Híthriel looked up like she was seeing him for the first time. ". . .Silivros?" The voice trembled, as if she was afraid.

"Yes?" he inquired.

She looked down at his arm. "Oh _shit_. . ."

He looked too—the blood she had choked out from her throat had splattered onto his arm.

Híthriel reached immediately for the canteen of water, cursing. "Wash it off, get it off your arm—"

Silivros grabbed the water and poured it on the blood that flecked his arm. Híthriel watched in panic, trying to sit herself upright.

"It's all right. It only got on my skin," he said in an attempt for consolation.

"Don't come near me." Híthriel was trying to shield him from herself. "I'll only hurt you."

* * *

— _Artanis—_

"A raven has come from His Grace Gil-galad, my lady," a Noldorin ellon said, bowing as he entered.

Artanis looked up from where she had been writing at her desk. "Lord Nestadren. When did you come to Ost-in-Edhil?"

"Only this morning, my lady." Lord Nestadren handed the letter to Artanis, who glanced at it and left it on her desk.

She folded her hands and flicked her eyes to him. "I had not been expecting you. How are things in Rhaendach?"

"All right," Lord Nestadren said. "The raven had come to Rhaendach some two days ago and the letter was to be copied and sent to Ost-in-Edhil, but I decided to ride here myself for a visit."

"Oh?" Artanis said. "Are these matters we must speak of now?"

Nestadren looked uneasily around the chamber. "Where is Lord Celeborn?"

"Out hunting," Artanis told him, the steel in her eyes never leaving at the comment. "I think the matter will be quite dealt with in my hands." She had always resented how Telepo had more power than her although they supposedly ruled side by side as lord and lady. The others never felt that a lady like her could deal with such matters. "Would you be so kind to tell me what troubles you?"

Even then, Nestadren hesitated, but did eventually speak. "Since the mêlée in Hithaeglir led by Lord Tyelpe and the other elleth that has not been named, His Grace Gil-galad has been sending out troops of the Númenóreans to investigate. Amongst them is a leader of theirs called Aldarion, whom I take to have visited this city not too long back."

Artanis gave a crisp nod. "Yes, that is correct."

"His Grace Gil-galad has sent out a letter to Tar-Meneldur, fifth king of Númenor, speaking of our issues in Eriador, asking for aid, it seems." Lord Nestadren was looking at Artanis expectantly.

"You seem to have opinions," Artanis said, an invitation for him to go on.

"I may," Nestadren said haughtily. "How can he be asking the _Atani_ for aid? Has he lost all pride in our heritage and forgotten our history?"

Artanis considered that. "At times like these, we must put pride aside and do what is best for the realm."

That did nothing to quell Nestadren's ire. "Númenóreans!" he exclaimed. "Has he lost his mind?"

"The Númenóreans have done nothing that would harm us, and in fact they are helping us," Artanis said, as if reprimanding a child. Lord Nestadren was young in her eyes, in fact, as a Noldo born after the Great Wars of Beleriand. "It would be good for you know when to receive aid and when to reject it."

"The Atani _betrayed_ us in the Wars," Lord Nestadren said vehemently. "They will do so, gladly, again."

"You are not so old to remember that, Lord Nestadren, if I recall correctly. You should do well to learn that not all people are one in those terms. If you must, you can send a raven to His Grace Gil-galad in Mithlond to voice your complaints; otherwise, I see no direction to this discussion."

Nestadren huffed angrily and strode forward. "When your lord husband returns, I will be sure to address this situation to _him._ Perhaps he would do better than you, my lady. Pray excuse me." He bowed, turned, and left. Artanis was about to turn back to her papers when she heard another voice, one cool and seemingly nonchalant, drawl out a lazy sentence.

"Is this a matter that I may take care of, Lord Nestadren?" Tyelpe was standing before the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

Nestadren hesitated, looking over to Artanis, but she was already striding over to the door.

"Is there a problem here, Tyelpe?" she said haughtily, her hands on her hips.

Tyelpe barely gave a glance to her. "It seems that Lord Nestadren here has one."

Artanis opened her mouth. "It is a matter that he has mistaken for some other—"

"Is it not important for all our voices to be heard, Lady Artanis?" Tyelpe said.

There was no other answer she could give. "Yes." She gave a withering look to both Nestadren and Tyelpe then turned to the latter. "I'm afraid I need a word alone with you, Lord Tyelpe. . .Pray excuse us, Lord Nestadren. May we speak more of this on the morrow." With nothing more, she turned and headed into the chamber, so that Tyelpe had no choice but to follow.

When Tyelpe closed the door, she turned immediately toward him, furious. "Don't you _dare_ speak to me like that in front of my people. What is wrong with you?"

"It seemed that Nestadren had something to say," Tyelpe said. "Why didn't you listen?"

"I did." Artanis was shouting now. "Only that you had not been there to listen. Tyelpe, what were you _thinking?"_

"I'm sorry if I angered you—"

"I have every right to be. For your part, there was no reason for you to just come and attack me like that. Why did you do that? Tell me. _Why."_

Tyelpe looked down. "As I said, I think all of our voices should be heard."

Artanis was angry beyond measure. She huffed, pacing around the chamber. "Very funny, Tyelpe. Did I do something? What have I done to anger you so?"

"Artanis, you're not thinking right, you're angry. . ." He made to put a hand on her shoulder but she shook him off.

"If you have nothing to say, then get out." She pointed to the door. "Get out."

He tried again. "Artanis—"

She strode three swift steps forward and slapped him in the face. "When I say get out, I mean _get out._ "

He was holding the side of his face in surprise, and looking at her cold eyes with something that he had not experienced before. Now he knew better now than to object; bowing his head, he turned and departed the chamber.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ost-in-Edhil._ Capital city of Eregion.

 _Rhaendach._ A city in Eregion that I shamefully made up because I could not find any other cities besides Ost-in-Edhil.


	18. Chapter XVII

— _Oropher—_

The Tawarwaith queen was garbed in a lavish dress of green and gold ornamented with jewels that encircled her like an aureola of stars. About her head she wore a golden circlet-like crown that scintillated when she moved and upon her ears a pair of jeweled ear cuffs of the same hue, yet around her neck she wore only a simple silver gem, so different than the rest of her raiment that Oropher was almost startled. When she turned her gaze to him with her eyes so viridescent that it seemed they were jade stones themselves, he felt immediately that she was trying to display the eminence and supremacy of her being.

"Lord Oropher," the queen said. "How pleasant it is that we meet here."

He knew that she used the title of _lord_ rather than _king_ pointedly, and not by mishap; he returned the jape coolly. "It is a pleasure to meet again, dear Lady of the Tawarwaith. Have you enjoyed your evening here?"

"I have." The queen swirled her scarlet wine and took a genteel sip of it. "From all the imports of Sindarin wine from trade, my people have begun to take a liking to it. I myself enjoy it quite a bit; I think I shall be taking some back to my people when we return. Would you like any?" She offered the glass to him almost lazily, holding it with two hooked fingers before her.

"I have had enough for tonight. Thank you, though, for the offer." Oropher opened his mouth to continue but the queen smiled and cut him off.

"Oh, but I insist. Tonight is a special night—is it not, my lord? I think we should enjoy, together, the culture of your people."

There was nothing he could do to object. "All right then, if you wish." Oropher took her offered glass and tasted the wine. "It is good," he said, to please her.

The queen gave him the simpering smile again. "Tell me of the traditions of the Sindar. This festival is called Tarnin Austa, is it not?"

"Indeed—it is a celebration of the summer solstice," he told her, slightly annoyed at for her to trouble him with mindless chatter when he had been with Hînaeryn. "Actually it is celebrated by not just the Sindar, but the Noldor too, and many other different divisions of the Eldalië." The infamous Fall of Gondolin had occurred on the day of Tarnin Austa; he remembered that fact well. He himself had been in Sirion at the time.

"It seems like quite a nice tradition," she commented, gazing into her wine. "It would be very sad for it to be taken from you, wouldn't it be?"

Oropher was slightly baffled by the statement. "Yes, it would be."

The queen turned to him, her jade eyes daunting. "Tell me, Lord Oropher, that you have seen the strife between our two peoples."

"I have."

"What do you expect to do about it?" She resumed to swirling her glass. "You know there must be an end to this."

"I have thought about it, but have been unable to come to a conclusion," Oropher said. "Do you have anything to suggest? I assume you would like political unity also."

Her eyes glinted. "Yes, that is _exactly_ what I want. My lord, can you not see? Our people must unite and become one. There is no other way."

"No other way to what?" he inquired.

"Why, to peace," the queen said. "Is that not what we all want?"

"Yes, of course." Oropher mirrored her gaze. "What is your suggestion?"

The queen laughed. "A marriage alliance. None better. How old are you, my lord?"

"Young for my kind."

"And you have no heirs, nor kin?"

He struggled for something to say. "Well—no."

"It must be their king anyhow," the queen mused to herself, a pensive look on her face. "My daughter is greatly loved by her people as the Princess of the Tawarwaith. She is young—although younger than you, no doubt—and will be the most wonderful bride a man can imagine." She glanced at Oropher. "It is a perfect plan, is it not? I have already done the arrangements."

"I—I—" He steadied himself. "Will you give me some time to consider, Your Grace?"

The queen smiled at the title. "I'm afraid the decision must be made now—would you leave your people in such confusion? If we play for time any longer. . .I fear that something more dreadful will happen than mere quarrels."

What she said was true, Oropher knew. He had to, he had to—he _must_. There was no other way, that much he knew. He was only delaying it because of the suddenness of it all; how could he abandon Hînaeryn right when she had finally accepted their love?

Oropher looked up. "You are right." He reached over the table and drank a mouthful of the wine. "It must be done."

There was a certain melancholy in the queen's jade stoned eyes, he saw, as if she knew all that had passed through his mind, as if there was something deep in her heart that she remembered and pitied, as if there was something she was concealing beneath all the pompous splendour. He wished he knew, so as to understand her.

"Thank you," the queen said, clasping his hand. "You are brave to accept such an offer, Your Grace."

"And so are you," he replied. When he stood up he realized that his hands were trembling. "Thank you. . .for helping my realm and yours."

* * *

— _Naergon—_

"Not too busy with that elleth of yours?" Naergon said, as Églanim entered the room, tousled and vexed. It had been a fortnight since the latter had first begun to tutor the former.

Églanim scowled. " _That_ elleth has wandered out of this useless inn, and _another_ elleth has wandered in."

Naergon laughed as he picked up a sheet of metal and examined it. "How interesting."

Églanim's scowl only deepened.

"Do you have any kin?" Naergon asked to pass the time. "Nearby, or elsewhere?"

He didn't know how Églanim's scowl managed to grow extemporaneously deeper.

"A sister," he said curtly.

Naergon was surprised. "Really? In Harlond?"

"No." Églanim didn't seem inclined to give out any more information.

"Mithlond?"

"Eryn Galen," Églanim snapped.

That surprised Naergon even more. "Eryn Galen? That is quite far from here." He also happened to remember that had been the destination of Híthriel and Silivros when they had suddenly left Mithlond.

"Indeed," Églanim growled, keeping his gaze firmly on his work.

"Is she there alone?" Naergon asked. It was odd for kin to be so far away from each other, especially when Églanim was struggling to support himself.

"She went there with her sister, but that sister has just recently died, leaving her with a child. I can't imagine why they left here."

Naergon could—evidently it had something to do with the ellith.

Églanim went on. "Hînaeryn and Ambarwen. Those were the names of my sisters. The daughter—Narbeleth. I can hardly believe I still remember them." He shook his head and spat decisively into the hearth. "Forget I ever spoke."

"I had a brother too," Naergon told the Sinda, none too wistfully. He said the words with a sort of a definite ending to it, like something that thumped onto rock-bottom and lay still, never moving again. "His name was Neldonwë. He died in Gondolin's fall."

"I see." Églanim refused to look up.

"As one of the Sindar, you might not understand. . .but when Fëanor rebelled against the Valar and the Two Trees perished, my mother refused to come with my father and my brothers. She stayed in Eldamar and when my father died in Dagor-nuin-Giliath, I thought I could hear her weeping." His mind was lingering on Helcaraxë, and that little boy called Dînaelin whose parents left him in the Crossing, leaving him to the care of his ill-tempered older brother. This little boy seemed to take part in a later history, he suddenly realized. . .

Églanim had stayed silent, but he stopped hammering now, and now stared at his hands. Naergon wondered what he was thinking and what he had done to force his sisters to run away to Eryn Galen. Although he could not see his eyes, it seemed that there was a certain sense of heavy-hearted guilt in them, a sense of oblivion.

 _Oblivion_ , that was the word—the word that portrayed a certain feeling of melancholy because you were stuck in a cycle that went on and on and you didn't know what to do so you succumbed to your desires; because there was something that you wanted so terribly and you thought you could have gotten yet now regretted; because when you looked into someone's eyes you didn't think when you edged forward into the darkness.

It is a senseless thing, that. It is a state in which you are unaware of what is happening because if you thought about it you wouldn't want to live anymore. Naergon had felt that _oblivion_ once before, and he thought he might have felt it again in that moment. He glanced at Églanim.

Oblivion.

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

How many days has it been—how many nights? I think I have been forgetting to keep track, to count the waxing and waning moons in the starlit sky ere I fall. The lights are quite beautiful in the sky, little silver and gold lanterns and candles all strewn about like stardust and forsaken dreams. I smiled at them, lying sprawled on my back before the camp; Silivros had yet gone out again for water and to scour any food that might be growing in the wilds. It was late, for I expected him to be back by now, but it most likely was that he had found something and was gathering it to bring back.

I pushed myself to my elbows with some effort, my chest tight with pain. I hated how, with so little movement, I was already out of breath and weary. Although that was true, it seemed nonetheless that I was weary all the time now.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw something flickering in the darkness. I struggled upright to a somewhat sitting position—I was still leaning against a tree—and came suddenly face to face with some kind of projection of. . .of Káno.

 _You're only hallucinating_ , I told myself as I studied the spectre-like projection before me. It was true—it did not speak nor do anything like what a fëa would do. I could still hardly see it; it seemed that it was shifting in and out of something as the wind blew, shaking the empty boughs of the coming winter. _Slipping into senselessness._

"I'm sorry," I said to it. "I don't know why—why I did all I did. Do you believe me?"

The projection made no answer, as expected. The last time I had dreamed of Mae, and he had spoken, but somehow now I did not expect anything to be in my favor.

"I don't believe myself," I continued aloud, musing to myself in solitude. "I don't think anyone should."

The projection stayed silent. I wondered if Káno was somehow still alive. . .somewhere in Forochel, perhaps, if anywhere, and I wondered if I did want to find him after all if I made it to Eryn Galen alive. What would I say to him? What would I do? Maybe I would find him in the ice, or floating in a glacial river, dead. I remembered when he composed the _Noldolantë_ , the Fall of the Noldor. I had come into their twisted, tangled family right as the cause of all the fire and rebellion had perished—Fëanáro—right as they were beginning a long-lasting war with Morgoth. For most of my life, the war against the North had never wholly ceased, I now realized. The Noldor had always been exiled, the Sindar had always been haughty.

When I looked up to the stars again, a dark cloud had begun to seep over the light. Then when I looked back for the projection, it had gone. I sighed, looking back at the cloud. It would soon rain.

I narrowed my eyes into the darkness, seeking any sign of Silivros. It had been a long time now. . .perhaps it was time that I would go and search for him. If I struggled and pushed myself, sanguinely I could get better.

Gritting my teeth, I crawled a little forward, ignoring the ungolócë in my blood. The rain had already begun, streaming down from the heavy grey clouds and mudding the ground. The forest was just a little way forward, and it would provide more shelter from the rain. Lightning flashed in the sky like the crash of cymbals and thunder rumbled like the roll of a bass drum. The sudden light illuminated the path a little before me, and I saw the reflection of my face in the rain gathering before me, the portrait partially cutting off the side of my head like a jagged mirror.

I had wished that I had gotten to know Silivros more. . .I always felt like there was more to this ellon than I had ever known. There was something in him that seemed different than others, a sort of a goodness to him that others did not have; many had fallen to the dark parts of themselves after going through so much, yet he had not. It was highly rare for one to be like this, I had found. Findekáno had never fallen into darkness—he had never suffered enmity of being—but his Fëanorian cousins, Naergon, myself, and even Maedhros had.

There was something on the ground a little way away from me, I crawled toward it in the rain, my body stained with the inevitable animus of mud, because I already knew what I had done. The lightning flashed again, the wan, pale light falling upon a face that I distantly recognized, distantly knew, but had never really known. _The inky blackness that trickled out of the mouth, the black spidery streaks like cracks in a mirror creeping all over the hröa, the pus that seeped from the infected wound. The serpent in the shadows._

Truly—a hideous, monstrous serpent in the shadows. _Ungolócë._

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit, plural _fëar_.

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body, plural _hröar_.

 _Ungolócë._ (Q) The poison, literally translated as 'serpent in the shadows'.

* * *

 _A/n:_ Yeah. . .sorry, I had to. It broke my heart too. I was crying, I really didn't want to, but that is life.

Ha

Also, as a reference, _Eregion_ is pronounced [air-EGG-ee-on]. I believe there's a longer explanation to the pronunciations in the appendices.


	19. Chapter XVIII

CHAPTER XVIII

* * *

— _The Númenórean Lieutenant—_

"Scout the area and set up a guard," the lieutenant ordered, passing a hand over the area. "I would prefer not to be unpleasantly surprised by anything, animal nor Easterling."

His men bowed their heads curtly and dutifully. "It will be done immediately."

The tents were set up promptly and the fires lit—the lieutenant himself walked around the camp, surveying his soldiers, his hunters, and his scouters as his squire and handmaidens propped up his own tent. They were sharing amongst themselves meat and mead, but did not dare offer any to their lieutenant although they acknowledged his presence.

When his tent was properly arranged for him, the lieutenant strode inside and called for a bath. They had a new kind of technology developed using leather to make their baths so that it was portable and more luxurious. It was custom for the Númenóreans to maintain their cleanliness, as water was regarded as a pure, healthful thing for good; perhaps later he would bring out the larger baths so that some of his men could properly bathe themselves also.

His handmaids helped him into the bath after undressing his rain-sodden garb, all of them averting his gaze but one. It was the youngest one, of course, only a maiden of thirteen, who had not yet fully learned the most expedient ways of filial duty. He returned the coy look and she quickly looked down, a demure, shy smile on her wan lips.

The lieutenant leaned back in his bath and commenced to think. Yes, it had been his supposed commander that had sent him here, yet now that man was no longer simply a commander but had now advanced to kingship. _Tar-Aldarion,_ he was called now, and if his father Tar-Meneldur had not surrendered the sceptre perhaps he would not be here. Tar-Aldarion was infamous for his messy situation with that wife of his, Erendis. Only one child they had as of now, and that was Ancalimë, who had been taken from Armenelos by her mother to be raised in the pastures of Emerië. Ancalimë's only childhood companion was Zamîn and she saw few men; her mother sought to feed her daughter with her own bitterness towards men, as Aldarion was hardly ever with his family, and voyaging here on the other side of the sea.

It was said amongst the Númenóreans that the Noldorin High King Gil-galad was inveigling Tar-Aldarion with lies of the Easterlings. Because of that Elda, they were ordered to be here in Hithaeglir, scouting for the Easterlings and pillaging what they could. He would take no orders from an Eldarin king who only cared for his own profit and well-being.

All his handmaidens had retreated someplace else now save the youngest one, who was hurriedly straightening a few things and preparing to take her leave. The lieutenant called to the girl, delicately, so as to not frighten her.

"Little one," he said.

She dropped what she was holding and turned. He beckoned to her and she came, timidly and nervously.

"If you say a word of what I am about to tell you right now, there is a knife on my table over there, and I think it fits quite well to your tongue."

The girl nodded.

"Good." The lieutenant leaned back in his bath again. "Do you really think Tar-Aldarion sides with the Noldorin High King? Or is he merely claiming to agree?"

Too surprised that she had been personally asked a question, the girl held a hand to her mouth and looked at him with wide eyes.

The lieutenant laughed. "What is your name?"

The girl looked down, wavering. "Nythiel."

"And I am your master, the lieutenant of the Númenóreans." He smiled amicably though it was somehow threatening. "Khôr, you will call me." The word meant lord in Adûnaic.

"Yes, khôr ninya," Nythiel said, bowing her head.

"Very good, Nythiel," the lieutenant said. "You learn quickly. Now, tell me what you think of the Noldorin High King, will you?"

Although the lieutenant knew that the girl would only say what he wanted to hear, he wanted the song of those words to drift to his ears. There was nothing better than to dream of the coming storm, and what glorious part he would play in the insurgence.

* * *

— _Naergon—_

The insolent ellon Églanim was fucking around with his elleth again, certainly not pleasing Naergon. He glanced at the darkening sky, greatly annoyed, and strode before the Sinda, putting his left hand on his hip, his metal one dangling awkwardly to the side.

Naergon cleared his throat and jerked his chin outside to indicate the time.

"Oh, is it that time?" Églanim said lazily. "Unfortunately the inn has not yet closed—it seems like I still have some guests to serve."

"Let your water boy take care of it."

"It doesn't seem like the poor boy can."

Naergon grabbed the chalice on the table and made to pour it over Églanim's head but the latter stayed his hand, muttering.

"All right, all right then, if you must—"

"We need to have a talk," Naergon said, already walking away.

Églanim cursed, pushing his elleth away and handing her the chalice. "Take that, and drink it if you can. The rum's quite strong."

Around the corner, Naergon was waiting for him, leaning against the corridor wall.

"What is it that you want, Noldo? You come here and ask me for something I should never have agreed to and now you expect me to—" Églanim sighed. "I don't know. What do you expect me to do?"

"Do you know why your sisters left you?" Naergon said. He too sighed and shook his head. "Here it is: I don't give a shit, but stop it with the ellith—"

"Not like you weren't like that once."

Naergon's eyes grew to a menacing glower. "I'm leaving Harlond. I don't know why I decided to come here in the first place, but this just isn't what I want. I'm only notifying you so you can tell me how much money I owe you for staying in your brothel." _Perhaps it was because I wanted to find myself not as a warrior like how I've always known myself._

"It's an inn," Églanim growled. "And on your departure—perfect timing, it might seem. A letter came to me this morning addressed to you." He produced a sealed envelope from his cobbler's smock and handed it to Naergon.

"This morning? Why is it that it only comes to me now?" Naergon took the letter warily and glanced briefly at the seal.

"I seem to have forgotten about it," Églanim said. "Now, if you may excuse me." He gave Naergon a mock bow and departed.

Naergon headed slowly up the creaking stairs, dimly lit by a single dying taper on the side of the wall. The windows were misty and outside a storm was gathering. A merciless gale slammed into the side of the building, making the brittle wood creak yet more.

When he entered his quarters, the fire had long died so he lit it again then watched the flames dance. After a moment's pause, he took the letter out of his pocket and studied it a little before opening it; the envelope hadn't been crinkled at all but was caked with such ample dust that it looked almost grey. The letter itself was written in a dark, elegant script. His eyes travelled to the bottom of it where it had been signed: _High King of the Noldor Gil-galad._

That interested him—Naergon began to actually read the content of it now instead of merely scanning the paper. There was nothing much in the letter, however; Gil-galad had only asked for him to return to Mithlond so he could be spoken to in person. Naergon frowned at the seal although it seemed legitimate then set the letter aside. Abruptly he realized that there was a faint patter on the windows; it had begun to rain. He looked outside the window and found Églanim standing there before the cobblestoned street, his hair drenched and sticking to his head. For a long time he only stood on the street that was slick with rain and stared out toward the east. There were no lights lit in the streets so that he was only like a mere ghost in the mist. _That he was,_ Naergon realized. _He was only a ghost._

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

 _I must honor his last wish. I must get to Eryn Galen._ The forest before me looked just the same as it had three days ago—perhaps I was going in circles, perhaps I had only been hallucinating and was in the same spot the entire time. Even the trees were gnarled, unwelcoming, as if they too knew the atrocity of my being and wanted to strangle me; they stared down at me with twisted branches and creeping thorns that encircled their boughs like the forest of Dor Daedeloth. The memory of it brought my thoughts to where I had first seen the ungolócë plant and the tar-like liquid that dripped from their black-petaled flowers.

" _You mean to kill me then," I said softly._

" _Dear Híthriel, child, you cannot die. You are of the blood of the Eldar and the Maiar," Mairon chided._

" _What are you talking about?"_

" _Your hröa may, but not your fëa," he said. He was watching my expression very carefully, nothing every blink, every twitch, every shift._

" _Are you offering me a new hröa?" I said, slowly—uncertainly._

 _The answer glinted in his eyes._

If I had agreed, perhaps Silivros would not be dead now. He deserved a better life than he had ever gotten, yet now there was nothing to be done about it. The fight was at an end, and every morning, only the sun of mourning came up in the east—a lachrymose elegy that weeped even when there was no rain to give the earth. I wondered if Nienna, Lady of Mourning, grieved for him too, or if the Valar had forgone the woe that passed in Endórë because it was too much to bear.

I was lightheaded; I felt as if I had bled out so much I was beginning to be like a wilting plant, shriveled and withered. The scar was knifing through me like a constant dagger and my eyes were glazed with the pain. There was something a little before me, a pool, or a lake. I crawled toward it, reaching for the water, yet I could not. I lay panting on the ground with the dirt on the ground staining my lips and one hand outstretched toward the mere.

It was then I abruptly realized there was something standing at the edge of the water, staring at me. It was a white stag, but through the scorching tears in my eyes it seemed like a ghost-like blur of silver. I turned over to my side to see better—he was merely standing there, watching me. I returned the gaze and suddenly felt as if there was some profound connection between us as I looked into the stag's eyes. They seemed very kindly, I thought. I would have liked to know him.

I reached forward and pulled myself a little more towards the water with the unforeseen determination. The stag and I locked eyes for a moment that was something indescribably longer than a moment, then suddenly the connection was gone. The stag's eyes widened, and we both looked at the same time to the black arrow protruding out of its flank. I opened my mouth to shout, but I cannot be sure if any words came out. Hunters with spears and arrows came streaming out of the trees as the stag staggered and fell, his blood staining the water in the mere.

 _No,_ I wanted to scream. _No._ The ungolócë was stabbing through my body mercilessly, and in the confusion, I hardly knew what was happening. The stag was dead; the hunters had pulled away from the body, but I cared not, for in the trees I saw the ghost of a girl that I had once knew. Silver eyes looked into mine, horrified. Her hair blew wildly around her face in the gale, mirroring her thoughts. I shut my eyes, feeling the tears that ran down my face. _I should have known. I should have known._

Then I felt the cold steel of death upon my throat, and I knew the end had come.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Khôr ninya._ My lord.

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit, plural _fëar._

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body, plural _hröar._

* * *

A/n:

T_T


	20. Chapter XIX

CHAPTER XIX

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

"It is a Quendë," the man was saying. "A woman."

"A girl, by the looks of it," someone muttered.

The Grand Chieftain watched as the man turned her over and put a hand on her chest, feeling for a pulse. But there was none, and somehow Taeloth knew. Luina had clapped a hand over Taeloth's mouth after she had started screaming, her body shaking with sobs that she could not stop although now the sobs were muffled by Luina's firm hand. Taeloth choked back another cry. Now she had no home. . .now she could never go home, because no one would care to come and find her. . .

"She is dead," the man said, drawing back at last.

"Why, isn't that pitiful," a voice drawled.

The Grand Chieftain turned to the man that slunk somewhere from the shadows and was prowling toward him like a hunting wolf. Yet Taeloth knew from the ósanwë; this was no man, there was too much power encircling this person to be one—he was of the Maiar. He was garbed in attire very strange to the Easterlings and contained an unmistakable aura of supremacy about him. Around his head he wore some sort of a crown that twisted around his head like creeping and crawling vines that seemed to shift even as he moved and his auburn hair was so much like flaming fire that they seemed to subconsciously force people to back away from it for fear of being scorched. When he turned to look at an individual, he would fix his eyes on them and his pupils would morph into slits much like a panther's.

"Who are you?" the Grand Chieftain demanded.

He turned his gaze to the Grand Chieftain now, and the latter stepped back in surprise at the morphing eyes.

"Your God of the Earth," he said, lifting his chin loftily as if to balance something very delicate on his nose.

The air was suddenly completely still, and the Grand Chieftain stared long and hard at the man before him. Then abruptly there was movement in the trees—a woman, one of the older Wainriders, knelt in the grass. That triggered a ripple of effects; all of those beside the woman knelt too and soon the others followed. Taeloth followed as Luina's unyielding hand pushed her down to the ground with the others. At last only the Grand Chieftain was standing, but after a swift moment he went down upon his knees also, kneeling before the God of the Earth.

All was silent for a long moment, and nobody dared move. Then the God of the Earth stepped forward to the carcass of the stag and studied it.

"A gift for me?" the God of the Earth inquired.

The Grand Chieftain took that as an invitation to rise. "Yes, yes," he said skittishly, raising his head slightly.

"Why, thank you," the God of the Earth said and lifted his hands. "Rise, if you will. All of you. There is no need to kneel. I am your god, your master, your king, but I am kind and generous. I am your Lord of Gifts."

Like a wave, the Wainriders rose and looked to the God of the Earth, waiting to hear what he had to say.

"You would like to hear what prophecies, what omens I have to say to you," the God of the Earth said. "I have none, but that a certain doom is coming, and if you desire the unity of the tribes, you would listen to me very carefully, when the time comes. Now is a day to rejoice with the celebration of a feast, for your Lord of Gifts has returned to you. Go now, and prepare for the feast. It shall be expected in three days."

"And the girl?" the man beside the dead Quendë asked.

"Oh, yes. That one," the God of the Earth said, turning. His face darkened, and the Wainriders backed up, frightened, at the look. "You have disappointed me greatly. This elleth had been my daughter, the Lady of the Earth. When you let her die, your fates took a lead to a darker dimension, for a part of the Earth has been chipped away. If you fail me again, then I am afraid your pitiful lives will end in ashes and dust, and there will be no legacy left for your people."

Later, there was a great fire in which the body of the stag was burned and there were many preparations for the impending feast. When all the Wainriders had gone to sleep, Taeloth crept out of her bed and stood before her tent, staring at the stars. They were suddenly so cold, so distant. She never knew they could be like that as the beloved sigil of the Eldalië, but now she understood why it was so. She heard the gasping and hissing of breath somewhere, she heard Khamûl's little infant brother crying, she heard a murmur of voices in some tent, but she did not care. She only wanted to be alone—alone and away from all else so it would stop hurting.

Nonetheless, the murmur of voices still drifted to her ears, although they hardly heard.

"You loved your father so, didn't you?"

A frightened whimper. It was the Lord of Gifts and the conquered Chieftain's daughter.

"I know you did. I have something that would greatly please the tribe of your own—the one they conquered and took over mercilessly," the Lord of Gifts whispered. "You will have riches, you will have wealth, if only you do what I ask of you. . ."

But Taeloth did not care, so she went away to the blood-stained mere where Híthriel had died and stood there, staring at the water.

* * *

— _Artanis—_

It was late at night when her husband returned to Ost-in-Edhil in a drunken stupor. Artanis had been working in her chambers, a slim taper burning by the window, when Telepo let himself into the room, a bottle of wine in his hand. She smiled, a little uncertainly, at his ridiculous reeling stagger as he stumbled across the room to her, shoving the flagon into her hand then snapping out the candle.

"What is it that caused you to be in such a great stupor?" Artanis asked. She took a drink of some of the wine herself; after the confrontation with Lord Nestadren and Tyelpe, she was weary and wanted to think naught of it.

"The hunt went well," her husband told her, seizing the flagon again. "Little Bronwë is learning quickly and very excellently." Bronwë was the son of a friend of his that he had just begun to train.

Telepo kissed her passionately on the lips and she complied, although still baffled at his sudden fervor. Artanis liked it, though, and she liked also the feeling of the heat rushing through her body from the wine, yet somehow it was all too different for her coming from Telepo. She pushed back and propped her head up on her elbow.

"Lord Nestadren wanted to speak to you today," she said, trying to sound nonchalant and casual.

"Did he?" Telepo inquired. "Well, that's too bad I wasn't there."

 _I'll take care of it tomorrow,_ Artanis thought glumly, pushing the thought aside. "Yes, it was."

"What's going on between you and the Noldo?" Telepo said suddenly.

"Which Noldo?" Artanis asked innocently.

"You know of whom I speak, my dear lady wife," he growled. "The blacksmith. The Fëanorian. The head of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."

"Tyelperinquar," Artanis said slowly. _Is that why you've been drinking?_

"Yes." Telepo crossed his arms and leaned back on the bedpost haughtily.

"Quite frankly nothing, except for the fact that he crossed me while I was speaking to Lord Nestadren today and tried to take care of the. . .matter himself. Quite imprudent, I'd say. I was quite angry at him."

"Were you?" Telepo murmured. The words were disbelieving.

"Yes, I was." Artanis breathed a sigh at the words.

"That's good, sweetling. Rumor says that he means to overthrow our rule here in Ost-in-Edhil and become the Lord of Eregion."

"Really?" Artanis said, surprised. Even for Tyelpe, she could hardly believe it.

"I know," Telepo sighed. "He has turned the Gwaith-i-Mírdain into something like a cult."

"We will take care of it on the morrow," Artanis promised. _He knows. They both know._

"Yes, we will." Telepo turned a little toward her. "How is our child doing?"

Artanis touched the slight swell in her belly delicately, smiling in sudden elation at her husband. "Wonderfully."

"What should we name her?" Telepo placed his hand over hers.

She had been thinking of one. "Silver crowned gift. Celebrían."

"For that I am glad," he whispered into the near-darkness. "A lovely name, Artanis."

She was bewildered by his use of her Quenya name, although she knew that he meant it as a message. He seemed to sense her thoughts and answered her doubts aloud.

"I don't want you to forget your native tongue," he told her. "I want you to be happy."

But in her heart, she knew why he had said so, but she held her tongue and forced the resentment in herself to be put aside.

"I am no longer my father's child," she said. "I have forsaken their path. Call me by the name you love me by, from your own tongue. Alatáriel."

"Alatáriel it is, then," he echoed.

"After all, it is the name you gave me," Alatáriel said, plastering a smile to her lips. She was glad that the night was dark so he could not see her eyes.

In the darkness she could see his own smile, triumphant and gleeful. "Yes, my Alatáriel, crowned with a radiant garland."

"Crowned with a radiant garland," she repeated. "I like it."

* * *

— _Naergon—_

When he awoke the next morning, he wondered why the inn was so deserted. He donned his garb, strapped on his sword, and swung his pack over his shoulder; he had stowed away his things the night before. The stairs creaked, as usual, and so did the wooden sign indicating the inn. Naergon lingered at the foyer of the stables for a moment and gazed down upon the quiet street as his horse snorted skittishly. He was about to ride off when he saw Églanim approaching from the building. The latter was coming not too slowly, but not too hurriedly either, as if he were in a dazed oblivion.

"I sold my inn," the Sinda said.

Naergon raised his eyebrows. "Did you?"

Églanim smiled sheepishly and looked down. "I think I need to get away too."

Naergon studied the ellon. "Perhaps you do." He waited and mused a little of the matter as Églanim went to mount up his own horse. _At last there is something different, something he can change._ When Églanim was ready, their horses began a leisurely walk to the gates of the Harlond city.

"No sleep, I'm guessing, by the amount of effort you put into selling the entire place in one night," Naergon remarked.

"It wasn't so bad. There's someone I know that had been wanting the place for years." Églanim kept his gaze forward, avoiding all eye contact. "I plan on going to Eregion."

"Eregion? What for?"

"I've heard that there is a guild of craftsmen there, called the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. I plan on joining them."

"I see," Naergon said. "Better than running an inn, I suppose."

"It is better," Églanim agreed.

They rode along the street for a few minutes in silence. The gates of Harlond were looming before them when behind them, a boy came riding on a pony, shouting.

"My water boy wants to come," Églanim explained.

"Oh—I see."

"His name is Farothon," Églanim said, the boy yelping as his pony skidded on a rock.

"Is it an epessë?" Naergon asked. Farothon could be somewhat translated to _hunter_.

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind." Naergon had forgotten that the obsession with naming, resulting in the intricate designs of ataressë, amilessë, and epessë, was something only the Calaquendi did.

"I have brought the supplies, sir," Farothon said, offering a lumpy pack to Églanim.

"Thank you." Églanim took the pack and the boy turned to Naergon.

"Allow me to introduce myself." Farothon sprang off his pony and bowed deeply. "I am Farothon, son of Feredir, son of Faltho."

Naergon did not know who any of those people were. "It's wonderful to meet you, Farothon son of Feredir. My name is Naergon."

"He is quite dramatic," Églanim said, sighing and rolling his eyes. He had kicked his horse forward again, initiating Farothon's follow.

"Where are we going, sir?" Farothon asked excitedly.

"A city." According to the tone in his voice, Églanim had already told the child numerous times.

"Say the name," Farothon begged. "I want to hear the splendour of it."

"Mithlond first, then Eregion," Églanim said, his voice droning on.

"I'm so excited," the boy exclaimed, wriggling in his saddle. "I'm _so_ excited!"

"Have you ever been out of Harlond?" Naergon asked.

"No, sir," Farothon said. "Dear Valar, am I _excited!"_

Naergon had to shake his head and laugh.

* * *

— _Oropher—_

Tonight he preferred to remain inconspicuous, thus donning himself in one of his old travelling cloaks from Doriath. The scent of it brought a certain sense of nostalgia that had his heart throbbing in a way he did not know was possible. It smelled like the earth and beech—Doriath was his old home nonetheless, no matter how long he might live in Eryn Galen.

The sun was setting in the west as he shuffled down the streets of Amon Lanc to Hînaeryn's small weaving shop. From where he was, he could see Narbeleth standing at the front, her eyes watchful for any unwelcome strangers, but Hînaeryn was nowhere to be seen.

Oropher approached the stand casually as if he were like any other person. When Narbeleth saw him, a giddy grin broke across her face.

"Why, if it isn't His Grace, the valiant King Oropher!" she exclaimed.

He smiled sadly at the child. "Hello, Narbeleth."

"Hînaeryn said—"

"Where is she, by the way?" Oropher asked, a little skittishly.

Narbeleth looked behind her. "She was just inside—"

Almost immediately Hînaeryn appeared in the doorway. "Meleth nin!" She barrelled him into an embrace and kissed him passionately.

"Hînaeryn—" Oropher began.

She waved the words away. Her hands were entangled in his hair as if they belonged there like how a tree needs its leaves. He knew he needed to tell her, he knew they should not, they _could_ not. . .

"Hînaeryn—" he tried again.

She pulled away. "What?"

He struggled to form words. ". . .nothing."

Hînaeryn studied his face. "You mean 'something'."

"No, I don't."

"Then why did you come here?"

"I wanted to see you," he said.

She smiled. "At least that last part is true. Tell me, meleth nin."

Oropher returned the smile, although his was strained and melancholy. "I only wanted to see you, Hînaeryn."

Her hazel grey eyes looked like scintillating dark opals in the sunset. "Tell me when you're ready."

"I will," he promised. "I will."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Meleth nin._ (S) My love.


	21. Chapter XX

CHAPTER XX

* * *

— _Naergon—_

Naergon hadn't realized how different Mithlond was than Harlond until he returned to the city. He sat now, in his chambers, idly reading a book. In truth, he didn't know why he was, but it seemed he had nothing better to do as he was waiting for Gil-galad to summon him. He was on the fiftieth page and yet he still had no idea what the book was about. What was it called again? He couldn't even remember. He flipped the book to its front over. _The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr.*_ Interesting. Why was he reading it again?

Instead, he sat in his chair with the book open on his lap and stared outside. He could see the Ered Luin from the window, the mountains so grand and beautiful he felt instantly calmed. In the First Age, they had been an unbroken line separating Eriador from Beleriand, but in the War of Wrath they had been ruined and cast down so that only a fraction of the southern mountains remained.

A knock on the door had him jumping out of his seat. He answered it quickly to find a stiff-faced man standing before him. _A Númenórean,_ he realized. The man was quite tall for an Atani, in fact he matched Naergon's height, and he had the lean, muscular body of a warrior.

"Naergon?" the Númenórean asked gruffly.

"Yes," Naergon answered. "And you may be—"

"His Grace Tar-Aldarion's most faithful lieutenant." The Númenórean's voice was nothing short of arrogance. "The Eldarin King Gil-galad summons you. For some indecipherable reason he chose me to fetch you, instead of some squire. And because His Grace Tar-Aldarion is so grateful and loyal to His Grace Gil-galad, I must comply on obeying his orders."

Naergon thought better than to answer to that, so he followed the Númenórean in silence down the streets of Mithlond. Of course, speaking to the man might have loosened the taut energy around them, but he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't offend him. Thus they spent a good chunk of their walk to the fortress without speaking, likely making both of them quite awkward.

Gil-galad welcomed him much more genially than the Númenórean had, for which he was very glad.

"Naergon," the Noldorin King greeted him. "How wonderful it is to see you again."

Naergon noticed the Númenórean lingering by the door, his face expressionless.

"Ah yes," he said. "It's wonderful to see you also."

The Númenórean gave a stiff nod to Gil-galad then made to leave but the latter bade him halt.

"Lieutenant Rhystórë."

The Númenórean stopped in his steps.

"I would prefer for you to stay, Lieutenant," Gil-galad said. "I think these are news that you too would like to hear."

The lieutenant gave a curt nod as Gil-galad motioned for them to sit. They were in one of the larger council rooms; there was a table twelve feet long in which Naergon and Rhystórë took seats opposite of each other beside the king.

"As you may know, Naergon," Gil-galad said, "there have been numerous skirmishes with the Easterlings in Hithaeglir, and I have sent Lieutenant Rhystórë here to oversee them. The peril in the east is not to be lightly taken. I have a need for a strong guard in the city, and I mean to have you be my captain of the guard."

"Me?" blurted Naergon, bewildered.

The Númenórean looked just as outraged as Naergon was incredulous.

"There are so many others out there more suitable for this role—why must you chose me?" _I have a lame arm, and my left is poorer than my right had ever been._

"If you would like to speak of the reason why, we may talk later, but now I must know if you agree to it." Gil-galad glanced at the Númenórean lieutenant, who had composed his discernable anger, although he was speaking to Naergon.

"I suppose I need some time to think. . ." Naergon was dubious.

Gil-galad looked to the door absently, as if he suddenly had other things to do. It was a way to cover up his unpreparedness, nonetheless. "I suppose you do. . .But I would like your answer as soon as possible, on the morrow, the latest."

"As you command, Your Grace."

"And," Gil-galad said suddenly. "Lieutenant Rhystórë tells me that you came here with another. . ."

"Yes, I did," Naergon said with a brief nod. "He left this morning for Ost-in-Edhil, to join the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."

"I see." Gil-galad glanced at the lieutenant again. "I think I shall need to keep an eye on things that are happening in Eregion. . .there seems to be a few riots of a sort." He turned to Naergon again. "Thank you for your attendance, Naergon. I hope to see you on the morrow."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Naergon bowed and departed. Lieutenant Rhystórë went to escort him out in silence, yet when he was about to close the door—

"How interesting," the lieutenant breathed. "I look forward to working with you, Captain."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

Princess Aelíndë of the Tawarwaith was prancing gaily around the commoners' streets, smiling at whoever caught her eye and buying all the goods that she could; the common folk all loved her very much—it happened to be at this time that Narbeleth was roaming the streets, selling flowers to boost the publicity of Hînaeryn's little weaving shop.

The princess was young, in fact; she was Narbeleth's age and a little older, but she still had the joy and light that a child should. In the years of the Atani she would be a maiden of sixteen, most like. She had long golden hair like a wave of sunlight and sapphire eyes like the sea, her beauty catching the eye of almost every ellon she passed. The common folk said her smile was like the shimmer of gold coins when they fell, and her face was fairer to look upon than even Yavanna Kementári, the Giver of Fruits. Narbeleth found that all of this was quite verily true, and even envied the girl for her beauty a little—no one ever stopped to look at her twice through her dustied garb.

Narbeleth went up to the princess nevertheless and held up the bundle of flowers, asking if she would like to buy some lilies.

"Of course!" Princess Aelíndë exclaimed, leaning down to breathe in the flowers' perfume. "They smell so wonderful."

The other girl smiled shyly at the words. She had realized how tall the princess was.

"They are so beautiful too," the princess said, admiring the lilies. "The pink ones are my favorite. You don't suppose I could buy all of them?"

Narbeleth was pleasantly surprised, in fact so much that her mouth hung speechlessly open. She realized how ridiculous she must look with her mouth open and slapped a hand over her mouth as the princess laughed merrily.

"Yes, of course, Your Highness," Narbeleth finally managed.

When the princess gave her a gold coin in return for the lilies, Narbeleth could hardly stop her mouth from hanging open again. She almost forgot to tell her about the weaving shop.

"Your Highness," Narbeleth called, hurrying forward.

"Yes?" Princess Aelíndë asked, turning back toward her.

"I—my aunt owns a weaving shop a little down the street. . .I don't suppose you could come by on the morrow for anything, if you would like, Your Highness?"

"I would be delighted to," Princess Aelíndë said, clasping her hands. "What is your name?"

"Narbeleth, Your Highness," she said timidly.

"Please, call me Aelíndë," the princess told her. "I'm afraid I must go now, Narbeleth, but I promise I will come on the morrow. Good night, and farewell."

"Good night. . .Aelíndë," Narbeleth returned, ecstatic at the gold coin in her hand.

The princess smiled and giving her a courteous nod, went back down the street to the citadel, escorted by half a dozen guards.

"Narbeleth," a voice said.

She turned to find Oropher standing there, dressed like a commoner again.

"Your Grace," Narbeleth greeted him jokingly.

"Narbeleth, I need you to—" he stopped. "I need you to tell Hînaeryn. . .that I can't see her anymore."

All the rapture died from her face. "What?"

"Please. Tell her for me." Oropher tried to turn away but went back again. "I can't—I can't see her again."

Narbeleth could not keep the shock from her face. "Why, Lord Oropher, why? You were going to get married and have a happy life together. . ."

"I—" He looked down. "I think you'll find out soon enough." He tried to go away then, but Narbeleth seized his arm.

"Oropher, you can't—What am I going to tell her? This isn't how it's supposed to be, it's not like that. . ." She wiped a stray tear from her face. "You were going to be together. . ."

"I'm sorry, Narbeleth," Oropher said quietly. "I wanted it to happen too."

He made to leave, then turned back again, one last time. "Sometimes love tastes only of duty."

But when Narbeleth went home she said nothing of the matter to Hînaeryn and went to bed, staring at the cold moon.

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

There was a pile of food so large before her that she could hardly see Khamûl on the other side of it—an assortment of nuts, seeds, berries, roots, cheese, and skewered meat roasting on the fire, and also two large pots of stew on either side of the dais, the meat broth boiled into it along with wild onions, garlic, and other roots. As nomads, the Wainriders generally ate the cattle and goats that they herded and the cheeses and milks that they produced, yet there was also a number of wild vegetables and berries that they included as part of their diet. They prized their animals, their horses most of all, whom they rode and fought with. They found the monthly sacrifice of the stag quite awful, for they greatly revered the stag's majesty; yet sacrificing that in which they loved the most was more precious and necessary for the God of the Earth to be content.

Taeloth and the other women were bringing in the drinks, a special type of fermented mare's milk that they called _aeglos,_ for it was as white as snow and as sweet as figs. Khamûl was sitting uncomfortably next to his uncle the Grand Chieftain, who was again laughing bawdily with the other tribesmen, but the Lord of Gifts was nowhere to be seen.

Luina had told Taeloth to keep working on the _aeglos_ and produce as much as she could from the mares that they had, so she did not see the beginning of the feast in which the Grand Chieftain gave a great speech of the splendour of the Wainriders. But she could hear as he praised the Lord of Gifts and honored the cremated stag then commenced the feast with a clap of his hands. Luina came at several intervals of time to gather the _aeglos_ , but otherwise Taeloth only listened of the talk that went with the feast. Then at last, when there was no more _aeglos_ to be made, Luina told her to go and join the others at the feast. She was quite good at understanding their peculiar language although still she could not speak it in the right accent.

When she approached the feast, she found that the food was already half-eaten. She could now see where Khamûl had been sitting next to his uncle—he was not there now—and she could see the former chieftain's daughter close by, staring sullenly into the fire. There was a tap on her shoulder then, and she turned to find Khamûl holding a piece of meat in his hands before her.

"Would you like some?" he asked. "I saved some for you."

Taeloth was somewhat surprised by the offer. "All right."

They sat down together by the fire as she gnawed on the meat, the oil and stickiness of it staining her hands.

"I've never really eaten meat before this," Taeloth said suddenly. "My people eat mostly plants and other things of the sort, but the Wainriders eat mostly meat, and if not dairy."

Khamûl glanced at her. "We don't have any place to grow the plants, and our animals are the only thing we have. I quite like the nomadic ways. I can't imagine living in one place for so long."

"Really?" Taeloth set the hunk of meat before her and wiped her mouth. "It's been so different for me here. Your lifestyle, and everything. . ."

"Tell me what it was like," Khamûl said in sudden enthusiasm. "Tell me what it was like were you lived."

"Well. . ." Taeloth began, pensively. "It's very quiet. I lived in Harlond with my uncle, and it always seemed very grey there. My people—we call ourselves the Quendi. There are hardly any children, and all the others seem sort of sad and. . .melancholy. The earlier Wars of Beleriand still haunts their memories, while here the Wainriders only speak of them as legend."

"How old are you?" Khamûl inquired.

"I don't know," she realized. "But I still feel like a child. I can't do anything to help."

"The woman," Khamûl said, "the dead Quendë that we found when we shot the stag and the God of the Earth came—did you know her?"

Taeloth felt unnaturally calm. "I did. She was the only one other than my uncle that had been kind to me in a long time. I met her in a festival in Mithlond and asked her to train me, but she refused. She told me that there was no beauty in war, for it is a cruel thing. _I cannot bestow this upon you,_ she said. _Stay in Mithlond. You are young, and do not understand these things._ I told her I did, but truly, I did not. And now I suddenly remember—I asked her if she could train me, and she said that she didn't think she could very much. Here I find her gone from a poison unknown to me. I didn't know very much about anything, didn't I?"

"It's all right now," Khamûl assured her. "That is in the past."

"It is, isn't it?" She looked at the boy and smiled sadly. "Because you can't relive the past. You can't change what you've done."

Khamûl had no words to say to that. "What was her name?"

"Lady Híthriel," Taeloth said. She wondered about the empty pit she felt in her heart, an abyss that she knew could never be sealed again, but she did not cry. No, she could be stronger than that. "You spoke of your father before. Do you still think of him?"

The boy had gone stiff. "I do."

"He must have been a great man," Taeloth mused.

"She killed him," Khamûl said suddenly. "Your Lady Híthriel. I saw her face. It was her."

Taeloth was about to tell him that he must have been mistaken when the former chieftain's daughter screamed. She whipped her gaze around to find the Grand Chieftain clawing at his throat, blood streaming out of his nose and down his face. His face was seized with a frantic terror, his complexion turning into a bruised purple as the veins on his face swelled blue and burst in a tangle of pus and blood. The red blotches that dotted his body bulged and became as pink as an eel's tongue, and the blood was running out of his nose in several streams now. His eyes were wide and his mouth gaped open, fighting for air—but there was none. Then the terrible tremor ceased to exist, and he moved no more.

For a moment, the air was completely still save the crackling fire, who paid no heed to the fruitless wars of mankind.

Then Taeloth realized that it was only her, and the chieftain's daughter was still screaming at the terror of it all. Now the others were shouting too. There were words of accusation in the air, and the word _poison_ pierced out of them most of all. _Who did it? Who did it?_ they were yelling. Khamûl's eyes were wide with shock and he seemed to be frozen in place, unable to move. Taeloth herself stood to see the Grand Chieftain's body more clearly, but soon regretted it.

That had all happened in a matter of seconds, and now suddenly the conquered tribe stood to the other in fierce defiance. _They had done it, they had done it,_ Taeloth realized.

"The Lord of Gifts has declared us to be the rightful tribe of the Wainriders to rise," one of the conquered shouted. "He proclaims glory for us all!"

" _Lies!"_ the others shrieked. Taeloth could scarcely tell which was which.

Khamûl's older brother rushed forward, the fourteen-year-old one. "LIES!" he bellowed. "My uncle was a great man. He did not deserve to be _slaughtered_ by the likes of you. Liars and thieves and murderers, that's what you are."

The conquered laughed wildly, throwing his head back. "Show them then! Show this boy how it is!" They seized Khamûl's brother by his arms and dragged him over to the fire, kicking and screaming. The others tried to stop them, but without their leader they were nothing. The conquered, however, with their renewed vitality from the curse of revenge, rose up into power in that very moment.

Khamûl tried to take a step forward but Taeloth grabbed his arm and pulled him back. The bitter conquered were dancing to the song of death as they held the boy down.

The chant became an incantation. "In the name of the Lord of Gifts! In the name of glory!"

Khamûl's brother was screaming not in anger but in terror—he was only a boy. Ugly tears were streaming down his face, as like with Khamûl's even as Taeloth hauled him back.

The conquered thrust the still crying boy in the fire and his body writhed and blackened. The dead grand chieftain lay on the ground, still and purple. The chieftain's daughter was sobbing and Luina was standing stony and silent to the side. All the others were chanting the accursed words that were empty and meant nothing at all: _In the name of the Lord of Gifts! In the name of glory!_

The brother was dead now, his body scorched and unmoving in the ashes. Taeloth dragged Khamûl out of the ring and into the forest. She caught his mother's eye who seized her three other children and ran with them. He was shaking and crying, half refusing to leave, half letting her do it, knowing it was the only way.

"Go far away," Taeloth told his mother. She distantly remembered that her name was Thaelin, and the first wife of the Grand Chieftain. The boy that had died had not been her child.

Thaelin nodded and took her children's hands.

"You're not coming?" Khamûl gasped out.

"No," Taeloth said. "Go! Get out of here, before they kill you too."

The words shook him, and he followed after his mother. Thaelin was holding the infant child in her arms, and with her other, she held the hand of a younger boy of around six. The girl of eight went to Khamûl and took his hand—and they ran.

Taeloth watched them leave and pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. She wanted to cry too but she knew she couldn't. She had to stay strong. _Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong,_ she told herself over and over again, because she couldn't think of anything else.

"Child," the Lord of Gifts said.

She turned, wiping away the tears she dared not admit. " _You_ did this," she said fiercely. " _Look what you've done."_

The Lord of Gifts shrugged. "Men lie, Men die. I only spoke. See what power words contain? You can be strong, child, with words. They will give you power."

Taeloth opened her mouth to speak, but she could find no words.

"What did they do for you, child, to make you weep for them? Quite frankly nothing, I must say. There is much for you to learn, to train. That I will gladly do. I see a certain power in you."

 _Power. There was so much you could do with power._ The words were bitter in her mind.

As if he read her mind, the Lord of Gifts smiled. "Yes, power. They give you strength, they give you courage. They give you many things. The Lord of Gifts can give you many things."

"I am only a child. I do not _want_ this," she whispered. "I do not want power."

The Lord of Gifts leaned down to her ear. "You want to find who you are."

"Yes." Her lips barely moved.

"When the moon rises in the east and shines upon the unsullied pool, you shall know."

She closed her eyes. "When the moon rises in the east and shines upon the unsullied pool, I shall know."

* * *

*E. T. A. Hoffmann.

* * *

 _A/n: That was quite a lot. We're going to have lots of fun seeing what Annatar Mairon does to the poor child, I hope. Please let me know what you think!_


	22. Chapter XXI

CHAPTER XXI

* * *

— _Hînaeryn—_

Narbeleth had gone somewhere else in the city to sell flowers and publicize their weaving shop so Hînaeryn was left to managing the place alone. It was somewhat pleasant to be alone, however; the solitude of the autumn leaves falling from the baring trees made her feel a certain sentiment that was beautifully nostalgic and melancholy. She rearranged the fabrics absently then let her hands do all the work she did not remember doing.

The Tawarwaith queen was approaching from the near distance; Hînaeryn grew a little hopeful that she might earn a little more money today. She collected herself and dusted off her clothes then resumed her work at the stand, pretending as if she had not noticed the queen's approach.

"Welcome, Your Grace," Hînaeryn said when the queen was close. "Would you like any help on finding anything?"

The queen, escorted by half a dozen guards, smiled politely. "The opal pendants look very pretty," she remarked. "I suppose I could get one of those for my daughter."

"Of course, Your Grace." Hînaeryn waved her hand over them. "They are an imitation of the opal stones, nonetheless. I painted them by hand."

"Really?" the queen said, surprised. "You have quite the talent."

Hînaeryn flushed. "Thank you, Your Grace."

The queen chose one of the painted stones resembling a black opal and paid her a sufficient amount, then leaned in to admire her other works.

"You know, when I was young, they used to tell me that an elleth's job is marrying and having children, not ruling as a queen."

Hînaeryn looked to her, but said nothing.

"I remember you were with the prince the other day," the queen said.

"The prince?" Hînaeryn said, confused. "Oh, Oropher. He is King of Eryn Galen—Your Grace must be mistaken."

"Oh yes, I must have been." The queen waved it aside. "I keep forgetting."

"What of him?" Hînaeryn asked, slightly concerned now. She remembered his skittishness and wondered what the queen had to say.

"I assume you must have seen the. . .strife between my people and yours," the queen began.

"Yes," Hînaeryn said. She was watching the queen very closely. The queen had very jolting eyes that were so marble-like they seemed to be jade stones themselves, but they were also sad and pitying. Those jade stoned eyes looked to her then dropped, and the queen opened her mouth and told her the story.

* * *

— _The Númenorean Lieutenant—_

Nythiel was dressed in a pretty yellow dress the color of daffodils as she came down the corridor holding in her delicate hands a chalice of wine. She placed the chalice before the lieutenant at the foot of his desk in his chambers in Mithlond, as if afraid to be any closer. The lieutenant smirked at that, and the girl jumped.

"We're going to be going back to Hithaeglir soon, sweetling. You should learn to be braver than this," he chided, then reached for the chalice. "That dress looks very pretty on you."

"Thank you, khôr ninya." Nythiel bowed her head.

"I did not compliment you, I complimented the dress," the lieutenant said, slapping her on the face. Then suddenly all the saccharine was back and he smiled sweetly at the girl. "What would you think of me, Nythiel, if I was captain? Or general?"

"You would be a very skilled one, khôr ninya," Nythiel said. "I have to say, you are a better warrior than His Grace Gil-galad himself."

The lieutenant laughed. "You are sweet-tongued, Nythiel, but that will not always save your arse."

The girl had no words to say to that; she must have been very glad when the sudden knock came at the door.

"Get the door, if you will, Nythiel, and bring us two glasses—did you expect us both to drink out of the same valar damned chalice?"

"No, khôr ninya," said the girl, shaking her head furiously.

"Don't just stand there, you stupid girl, get the door."

"Yes, khôr ninya," she said, and hurried away.

The lieutenant leaned back in his chair and drank from the chalice for a long time. It was thus that his brother found him, his feet on the table and his hair a disheveled mess.

"Greetings, brother!" The lieutenant stood up and barrelled his brother into a crushing hug that seemed more aggressive than anything. "It has been long since our last meeting!"

"Greetings, Rhystórë. You look well." As a lord of the Númenoreans, his brother was reasonably more collected than he was, though he scarcely dared to admit that. He had won his land and money with a tourney battle in which he was recognized as a substantial fighter. Soon after he was knighted by the Queen Tar-Ancalimë, causing him to somehow win a considerably large chunk of land—the lieutenant had wholly forgotten the whole damn tale.

"Why, do I, Belyswë? Do I really look well?" The lieutenant gave a haughty laugh. It was then that Nythiel came in with two glasses for their drinks, so he seized one and poured a cup for his brother. He was annoyed that he did not have any poison on him so that perhaps his hand might just slip. . .

"Very," Belyswë said, chuckling. He took a sip of his wine. "Do you have a moment to speak, brother?"

"Of course." The lieutenant clapped a hand to his back and led him over to the table. _Perhaps one day I might have my retributions satisfied. But not today, no, not today._ "Come, have a seat."

* * *

— _Khamûl—_

"I am back, mother," Khamûl said, handing the dripping waterskin to her.

Ivanned and Risto were crying again—they were only infants anyhow. Khamûl couldn't blame them; it _was_ cold, and his stomach was rumbling. They had had nothing to eat save the nuts and berries they could find in the woods, as had relied heavily on their animals for survival. Khamûl knew that he had to go hunt something soon, even if he was only twelve.

Thaelin, his mother, drank a gulp of the waterskin then handed it to his sister Khalentharia. "We will stay here for the night, but we must keep moving when the morning comes."

Khamûl rubbed his hands together and breathed into them, trying to warm himself. The sun had not yet set and there was still a little light on the horizon. Thaelin stood, her hair disheveled in the wind, looking out into the west.

"I will be back in an hour or two," she said, then turned back to her children. "Khamûl, you are in charge."

He nodded as his mother picked up the spear she had left leaning on a tree and headed out into the forest. Khalentharia snuggled up next to him and put her hands to her ears, trying to block out their infant siblings' crying.

Khamûl laughed. "That won't work. They're too loud."

Khalentharia glanced at him. "I can't hear you."

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't," Khalentharia said, then burst out laughing. She put her hands away from her ears. "Don't you wish father were here, sometimes?"

"Maybe a little."

"Then we wouldn't be here in the first place, and if we were, then he would catch some food for us."

"All you think about is food," Khamûl complained.

"I'm hungry," she protested.

"Oh shut up. Don't make me think of it."

Khalentharia mock pouted then turned to the setting sun.

When Thaelin returned, she had the limp form of a rabbit in one hand, and her spear in the other. That night they cooked the rabbit and made it into a stew with the other plants and roots they had found in the wild, and it was only after they had been presented the food that Ivanned and Risto stopped crying. That night had been their lucky night. Nonetheless, no one spoke that entire night, and not even in the morning, when they set out.

* * *

— _Églanim—_

Eregion was more different than he had expected. For one, his water boy (why did he even call him his water boy) Farothon had stayed in Mithlond to be the King's squire or something of the sort, which left his journey there must quieter than he had thought it would be. Yet the city was somewhat like Harlond but with less dirt on the streets and more holly trees. He supposed then, that all cities were the same.

He had only come to Ost-in-Edhil last night, staying in a sparsely populated inn, yet he decided to go to find the Gwaith-i-Mírdain as soon as he could; thus he went in search of Lord Celebrimbor on the morrow on the grey streets of the less dirt-packed city. He personally had never met the ellon, but he was supposed to be recognizable—a substantially tall Noldo that had the gleam of the ghost of the Fëanorians in his grey eyes. He wondered why he was going to a Fëanorian after his home in Doriath had been destroyed by them, but he didn't suppose that it mattered now; the whole damn continent sunk anyway.

Ost-in-Edhil furthermore was a city larger than he could have liked, as that morning, he unpremeditatedly found himself lost a little more than a dozen times. The truth of the number was quite humiliating, in fact; he didn't like to think of it. The inn he stayed in was close to the gates, and it was around that time that he realized that he had been walking around in circles because the gates kept appearing before him.

At last he threw his arms up in exasperation and suffered himself to ask the innkeep to direct him to where Lord Celebrimbor might be. The innkeep, with his very sparsely populated inn, offered to take him directly there.

"Where are you from?" the innkeep asked. He was quite a talkative one.

"Harlond," Églanim told him. "One of the cities in Lindon."

"Ah, yes. I know of it." The innkeep turned a corner.

"I used to be an innkeep myself there." Églanim was half-musing to himself. "I would say it was an. . .interesting time for me. I'm glad I've left it behind."

"Is being an innkeep so bad?" the innkeep said, and it was then Églanim realized that he might have offended the ellon, but by then they had approached the headquarters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

It was, in sooth, a very interestingly designed place for an organization as such. The place looked more like a temple than anything, with two large pillars adorning the foremost part and before then two intricately carved statues of birds taking flight. It was not as big as the massive temples he had seen elsewhere, but still mildly so. There were archways about its sides and numerous cloisters surrounding it, some leading out to the rivers of Sirannon and Glanduin. The floor of its entrance was a black marble, and the building itself was a sort of slate grey.

"I suppose I should go back now," the innkeep said. "Good luck on your travels."

Églanim dipped his head. "Thank you for bringing me here."

The innkeep shuffled back down the street, and Églanim was left to himself before the grand headquarters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. He stared up at the statues for a moment, wondering if this really was what he wanted to do, then entered through the cloister.

He came into a largely abandoned room, its perimeter encircled with crumbling sculptures of the Valar and Valier. After glancing at them for a few brief moments, he continued down the long cloister where he could hear the familiar banging of steel in the distance. At last, when he reached the end, he found an ellon sitting in a smithy, working on refining a silver sword. The ellon seemed not to hear him enter, or see him either, so Églanim cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"Excuse me," he said, as courteously as he could.

The ellon looked up, bewildered. "Mana quentel?"

"Ah—I'm sorry. . .I don't speak Quenya."

"Oh. Right. Forgive me. My name is Angamaitë. Who might you be?"

"My name is Églanim. I have come from Harlond to join the Gwaith-i-Mírdain," Églanim told him. "Might you know where Lord Celebrimbor is?"

"I'll take you there," Angamaitë said, standing. "It's quite easy to lose yourself in here."

Angamaitë led him to a dimly lit forge where the very air smelled of metal and ash. The smoke stung Églanim's eyes a little as he blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. When his eyes at last adjusted, he saw Angamaitë walk forward to two people hunched over something in the gloom.

"Aiya, herunya," Angamaitë greeted Lord Celebrimbor. "Mo sinya tullenye."

The Noldo looked up. "Á náto?" He turned and upon seeing Églanim, smiled politely. "How wonderful—two new recruits in a day."

"Mae govannen, my lord," said Églanim, bowing. "My name is Églanim, and I have come from Harlond."

"And I am Celebrimbor. Pleasant to meet you, Églanim," the other returned. "This here, is Angamaitë, which I presume you have met, and the other here—" Celebrimbor turned to the ellon beside him, who had just now stepped out of the shadows. "This is Annatar, Lord of Gifts. He has just come today."

"Is that so?" Angamaitë said, cocking his head. "I did not see you come in."

Annatar smiled, and suddenly Églanim felt a coldness in his chest. "I came from the back door."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Mana quentel?_ (Q) What did you say?

 _Aiya, herunya. Mo sinya tullenye._ (Q) Greetings, my lord. Someone new has come.

 _Á náto?_ (Q) Is that so?

* * *

 _A/n:_

It has begun.

It has only just begun ;)


	23. Chapter XXII

CHAPTER XXII

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

 _When the moon rises in the east and shines upon the unsullied pool, you shall know._

Taeloth strode over the clearing, a cup of _aeglos_ in her hands. She was serving the new Chieftain now, the one that had poisoned the last Chieftain. They were all Chieftains, or so they called themselves, but really they were all the same. It was a short process that kept repeating itself over and over again in meaningless cycles. _Men lie, and men die. I only spoke._

She placed the cup of _aeglos_ before the Chieftain and departed. He was still speaking to the other man before him and had barely taken any notice of her, which she liked. She liked being unseen. Fear had planted itself in the other tribespeople's hearts; all worked silently or with quiet exchanges under the gaze of the new Chieftain. _What did they do for you, child, to make you weep for them?_

For the entire day she worked in silence with the others—she milked the cows, she tended to the horses, she fed the goats, she gutted the fish, and she served the Chieftain. She wondered where Khamûl was, and if the boy were still alive. If he was, the wild would make him strong and fierce. Living in the Wainriders' tribes already had. His mother was a tough and determined woman; they would live, and they would learn from her hardiness and perhaps return someday. _Power. There was so much you could do with power._

At sundown, they found the chieftain's daughter dead at the bottom of a crag. It had unmistakably been suicide. A man was accused of rape and hung on the gnarled limb of a tree. No one bothered to unstring him, so his body stayed there, rotting for the crows. Even when they left the land for greener pastures, the man remained, until he was nothing but strips of flesh and bones and dust. _See what power words contain? You can be strong, child, with words. They will give you power._

The new Chieftain was harsher than all the rest. He punished those who did wrong severely to enforce his power. At the beginning, when they did not know to listen to him, he asked the silent man a question—the one Taeloth had met on one of her first days here. But he had not a tongue, so he could not answer. The new Chieftain asked all the others what happens to a man who does not answer to him, and because there was no answer, he killed the silent one. The details, Taeloth thought, were better left unsaid. _There is much for you to learn, to train. That I will gladly do. I see a certain power in you._

The sun vanished over the hills halfway through supper, but by then Taeloth was already finished. Darkness was cast over the land, and she stole away into the forest. Silent as a shadow, she began wandering back to the place where Híthriel and the stag had died. _Yes, power. They give you strength, they give you courage. They give you many things. The Lord of Gifts can give you many things._

Taeloth breathed in the night and felt its cool air rush in through her lungs. She felt renewed by it, and continued forward, her gait suddenly not a mere wander. The trees passed by her like the fleeting people that had come and go in her yet short life, and their leaves fell like the flayed remnant of that softness peeling away. Fugitive visions they were, and they would not return again, not unless she let them. She wanted to feel the texture of the grass on the ground so she kicked off her shoes and left them somewhere in the trees then continued forward. _When the moon rises in the east and shines upon the unsullied pool, you shall know._

She halted then at the mere. The grass had somehow grown there again unstained with the blood of the Quendë and the stag after such a short time. There was no imprint whatsoever of where their bodies had lay, and nor was the pool red as it had been last she had seen it. In fact the pool was somewhat glowing as if some light had been cast upon it. She looked up. The moon shone upon its mirrored surface, wan and pale.

"When the moon rises in the east and shines upon the unsullied pool, you shall know."

Taeloth turned to the speaker—the Lord of Gifts.

"I wonder. . .why did you stay? You, most verily, could have gone with the boy."

"I don't know," Taeloth admitted. "Perhaps I. . .knew. I did not want to run like a craven."

"So you admit the boy was a craven to run?"

"No," Taeloth said. "But it would have been craven for me to run. I want to be strong."

The Lord of Gifts smiled. His teeth were very white and pure. "Are you ready, little one?" He held out his hand to her, and she looked at it, studying it. His fingers were long and his hand slender, and they were adorned with nothing—at least nothing now. She glanced up at his face. His eyes were crimson and like a cat's; they seemed to glow in the darkness of the night.

But Taeloth did not return the smile, and took his hand, closing her eyes. The wind blew, then howled, then screamed. _When the moon rises in the east and shines upon the unsullied pool, I shall know._ And when she opened her eyes again, the most beautiful sight was before her.

It was only then that she smiled.

* * *

— _Oropher—_

At least he had spoken with her before today. She had told him that she would not come, but perhaps he could ask Narbeleth to be one of the flower maidens. He had not the heart to, so he never spoke.

The last time he had come upon Hînaeryn was accidental. She was not angry at him, but looked upon him with calm eyes that ebbed of the grey sea. She did not ask him why he did not tell her, but only smiled with that air of melancholy that had him taking another step closer to her. He took her hands in his own as she watched him—his eyes, his expression.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm so sorry."

"Sometimes the world is that way," Hînaeryn said. "But it's all right now."

Oropher lifted his eyes to her. "I'm. . .glad that you can say that."

"Really, though." Hînaeryn's eyes never left his gaze. "You need to put duty ahead of everything else. Marrying me would not have done anything for the realm. The Silvan princess will put Eryn Galen out of a civil war."

"She will soon be queen," Oropher said quietly. _You could have been my queen, Hînaeryn._

It was as if she had read his mind. "It could never have been, Oropher. You knew that. So did I."

 _Don't you remember those stories all Sindar were told when we were children?_

 _Those were just stories._

"It could never have been," he repeated.

"No," she said, a sad smile on her face. "Go now, and be the great king Eryn Galen needs you to be."

But that had been half a fortnight ago, and now the Silvan princess was coming toward him to where he stood on the dais. All around in the crowd, people were smiling, and there were flowers everywhere—on the ground, in people's hands, flying in the air. The ellon before the dais was reciting something from a book in his hands. Oropher had plastered a smile on his face, remembering Hînaeryn's words. _You need to put duty ahead of everything else._ So he smiled, for the realm, for his people.

The ellon with the book asked the Silvan princess a question, and she answered _yes_. Then they asked him, and he bit his lip.

"Yes," King Oropher of Eryn Galen said.

There was clapping and cheering and many jubilant smiles, and Oropher had to shake many hands. He smiled at each and every one of them, sincerely—he was happy for them. _Sometimes the world is that way. But it's all right now._

When the food was presented to him and his lady wife, he served her the first dish.

"It's all right now," he told her.

* * *

— _Atharys—_

 _Morinórë_

Atharys stood before the ungolócë vine, watching its silent, baleful power ebb and rise as if it too could breathe and formulate plans of guile and deceit; the poison nectar dripped from the flowers in large, bulging drops and sunk into the ash-covered ground as if it had never been there. He extended his fingers forward to the substance in such a way that it seemed he would have liked to touch it and be forever imbrued with its treacherous curse, then pulled his hand back slightly, instead suspending a droplet a little away from his fingers, not daring to have it hover over his hand. After a moment he let the ungolócë plummet to the ground and sink into the ash; there was someone coming from behind him. He waited until it seemed that he had not heard the approach from afar to turn.

Mairon was walking toward him, his scarlet cloak trailing behind him, holding someone looking quite unconscious in his arms. When he was closer, Atharys saw that it was an Noldorin elleth with dark hair streaked with silver and a scar over her right eye. The dark mark of one poisoned with ungolócë had crept up her face and mingled with her scar.

"Who am I having the pleasure of meeting?" Atharys said, lifting his eyes to the Maia before him.

An interesting smile curved onto Mairon's lips. "Your sister."

"Hm." Atharys concealed his surprise and looked again at the elleth, feeling the bonds of her fëa around her and finding none. "She's dead."

"Yes." Mairon stepped a little forward and placed her delicately in Atharys' arms. She was very light and her skin was stone cold. Mairon stepped back with that same interesting look still on his face, then swept past him. "Come."

They walked through the ash forest with its bone white trees and enchanting beauty. Sometimes with his eyes Atharys could see ravens perched atop their boughs, ever vigilant, but they were always there. It was in this forest that he had first learned that his eyes deceived him and fed him lovely lies. A silver mist drifted through the air, tainting his senses; the only thing he could rely on was ósanwë, yet even then he must be careful.

Mairon led him to the temple at the heart of the ash forest—it was one dedicated to the Vala Melkor, just as they had temples for all the other Valar and Valier in Aman, or so Mairon had told him. The structure itself was made of obsidian stone from the depths of Orodruin so clear that at times Atharys could see his own reflection in the looking-glass. They entered and went to the bathing chambers where it was said that all could be cleansed, and Mairon bid him lay the elleth in the water. With her hair billowing around her head, she looked almost alive if it weren't for the terrible paleness in her face. They stripped and bathed the elleth until all the dried blood and remnants of the ungolócë was washed away as Atharys observed the grisly scar extending from her shoulder to her hip, wondering about his father—hers too, he supposed. When they had finished with that, they dried and brushed her hair until it gleamed as much as could be in death and dressed her in garb that was silver and black like the moon and the ravens, then brought her before the sacred tree.

His father knelt before the tree, so Atharys did too, and closed his eyes, thinking. He opened his eyes after a few minutes then glanced at Mairon, who was staring directly at the bone-white tree.

"How did she die?" Atharys asked at last, but Mairon knew the true question.

"It was one very interesting day in the First Age some time ago, before you were born. I was rash, and angry. Then I could not control myself very well. A mere accident, that is all."

"So it was you," Atharys said.

Mairon laughed, the cold sound echoing off the obsidian walls. "Evidently."

Atharys was left in silence.

"You are strong, Atharys yondonya. You are powerful. Never let anyone take that from you. Ever." Mairon looked suddenly troubled as he turned to Atharys. "We will return, mark my word. We will."

Atharys did not know what his father spoke of, and did not answer to that.

"I have learned much over the years. . ." Mairon closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. "They will not take anything from me. No more. Atharys, you do know what they did to us, don't you, yondonya?"

"Yes." His lips barely moved. "I remember."

"That is good." The fervor had vanished from Mairon's voice and now he looked only melancholy and lost before the sacred tree. He stood and began to depart the chamber.

Atharys stood then looked back at the elleth lying before the tree. "Will we leave her here?"

"For now, we will," Mairon whispered. It seemed as if he was repeating these words to reassure himself, as if imaging he had someone there to say _it's all right now,_ even though no one ever had.

"For now."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Yondonya._ (Q) My son.


	24. Chapter XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

"Don't you think the silver's a little too dark?" Annatar asked, holding the ring delicately with two fingers and peering at it. "For a ring the color of the moon."

Tyelpe crossed his arms and studied it as Annatar continued on.

"The moon isn't so simply a color—it is silver and white and gleaming and something else. It seems to be almost entirely impossible to recreate something with such intricate detail and with such an unique flavor, doesn't it?" Annatar placed the ring on the stand. "Tyelpe?"

"Yes, I agree. Perhaps we should melt some of the Naugrim silver and mix it with the crushed opals to make the color more. . .vibrant." Tyelpe picked the ring up then put it down. "Does Angamaitë have any silver—Angamaitë!" he called.

"I will go for the opals," Annatar said, slinking from the room.

It was not Angamaitë, but Telemmaitë, his twin brother, who came in the room. "My lord? Angamaitë is busy for the moment. Is there anything you might need from him?"

"Do you happen to have any of the silver that the Naugrim brought last time from the mines of Moria, Telemmaitë?" Tyelpe inquired.

"I may—" Telemmaitë began, but it was then that Annatar strode in the room, a canister of a silvery substance in his hands.

"I have the opals, my lord," Annatar said. "And I had a thought that instead of plain silver we could use _mithril_."

Tyelpe clasped his hands together. "Perfect. Artano, you really are clever. Where did you learn all of these talents?"

Annatar's eyes sparkled with a certain mischief. "I taught myself."

"My lord?" Telemmaitë said. "I will go attend to my duties, if you need nothing else."

"Nothing." Tyelpe waved him away. "Go on." He turned to Annatar, who was pouring the lump of mithril into the burning chamber. "How did you crush the opals so quickly?"

"I used a technique—a trick." Annatar's lips curved upward. "I could teach you someday."

"You have already taught me very much," Tyelpe said, but Annatar went on nonetheless.

"How will the ring reflect and glow like the moon?" Annatar murmured as he poured in the crushed white opal powder. It scintillated when it fell like a waterfall or a multitude of stars. "When you create these artifacts, they cannot simply be made by only your hands."

"What do you mean?" Tyelpe asked.

Annatar's eyes flicked up to his. They were amber like the fires of the forge themselves, and Tyelpe found that he could not pull away from its daunting gaze. "Why, Tyelpe, it is like music. Arda was made with the great songs of the Ainur not because they sang. It was made because they poured joy and bliss and beauty into this world, because they poured their passions, desires, feelings into Arda. Music is not so beautiful if only the fingers move, is it not?" He plunged his hand into the silver and white dust and let it stream from his fingers. "You need to pour emotion into your makings, Tyelpe. Ask yourself—what do you feel? What does Isil feel? Is it Anger, Rage, Bliss, Revenge, Joy, Nostalgia, Love, or Melancholy? Perhaps it is none of them. I do not know, but maybe I will know when I see the colors you have poured into the ring."

Tyelpe had somehow broken his gaze as he was speaking, but now he looked up at Annatar and found that there was something in his eyes that he had not seen before. Annatar looked away to conceal it.

"Artano. . ." Tyelpe leaned forward.

Annatar jerked upright. "Valar damn it, Tyelpe. Pour anger in the ring. Pour it all in there, and make sure someone _knows_ when they see it. I know it's in you. I see your anger. I see your _pain."_

Tyelpe hadn't realized that he was holding his breath, but he didn't do anything to change that. "What do you see?"

"Many things," Annatar whispered. "There is so much anger in you, Tyelpe, so much pain. You resent, you remember, you love. You hate people for what they think you are. They think you are your father, but I know—you are not. You are someone so much more different, more distinguished."

Tyelpe laughed. "Spare me the flattery, Artano. Let's make this ring."

Annatar managed a faint smile. "It will be so beautiful when we finish."

* * *

— _Khamûl—_

The incessant wailing had stopped now—had stopped dead and would never wail again, nor cry, nor smile, nor laugh. Why was the night so raw and biting; why were the trees so stark and bare? It seemed that all life had dwindled now, and was doomed to perish. He had never known a day so cold or a night so bitter. No matter how much he clung onto warmth, his mother, his sister, he knew he could never be warm again.

When the sun rose in the east this morning, Ivanned and Risto had been stone-cold dead. Too many gelid nights and starved days. . .Khamûl had buried them with his own hands; he hadn't wanted the crows to get them. He didn't think he could stand the sight of his little brothers with their eyes gouged out and strips of rotting flesh hanging on their brittle bones. Khalentharia had cried and cried but his mother Thaelin had only stared with bloodshot eyes at their bodies as she buried them. Was the world really so cruel to make a mother bury her own children? Khamûl wanted to cry too, but he told himself he could not. For Khalentharia and for his mother. He had to stay strong, he had to stay strong. . .

That day still they continued on with the burden of the deaths of Ivanned and Risto on their shoulders. Sometimes Khamûl thought he could see their ghosts following them as they walked, and sometimes he had to force himself to not break into a run to flee from those ghosts. They haunted him day and night, whether he was walking or sleeping, gathering or hunting. _No, stop it,_ he wanted to shriek. _Stop following me._ But they never did, not even at the end of his days.

There was a time when a few days had passed that Khamûl sat around a sputtering fire with Khalentharia and Thaelin. They were all silent now; it had always been Ivanned and Risto that were making all the noise, and Khamûl and Khalentharia had only spoken to each other in quiet voices. Thaelin was staring into the fire, and Khamûl could see the leaping flames reflected in her eyes when he looked at her. Khalentharia was looking about into the forest beyond uneasily, and suddenly she turned to her mother and pulled on her sleeve.

"Mother, there is something out there," Khalentharia whispered. "I can see something moving through the trees."

Thaelin looked, squinting into the darkness.

"You're probably imaging it," Khamûl said, dismissing it.

"No." Khalentharia leaned closer to her mother.

"There is something." Thaelin was still staring into the trees. "Khamûl, douse the fire."

Khamûl complied quickly then too glared at the shadow in the distance. They were all silent for a moment, then Thaelin stood up, shouldering her spear.

"We need to keep moving," Thaelin said.

Khalentharia probably would have liked to complain; Khamûl wanted to, but neither of them said anything as they got up on their feet and continued on in the darkness.

"Stay close together," Thaelin cautioned.

"I can't see anything, Mother," Khalentharia whispered. "I can't see where I'm going. It's too dark."

Khamûl could hear only the whisper of trees and Khalentharia's stumble in the gloom. "Here, take my hand," Thaelin said, reaching for both her children. "Do not be afraid."

* * *

— _The Númenórean Lieutenant—_

Rhystórë leaned back in his chair and laughed, loudly and bawdily. "Wasn't that funny?" He was howling with laughter. "That was the best joke I had ever heard in _years!"_

Belyswë had his arms crossed over his chest. "I'm sorry, dear brother, but I don't think you ever said it aloud."

"Oh, did I not?" Rhystórë tried to calm his hysterical laughter quite unsuccessfully. "That's such a pity."

Belyswë waited, a bored expression on his face. "Do tell. I wish to be just as entertained as you are, dear brother."

"Where is Father, by the way?" Rhystórë said, sitting up. "I thought he would be meeting me tonight."

"He commands you to return to him," Belyswë said. "He has not come to Lindon, and awaits you in Lond Daer."

Rhystórë did not like it when people commanded him to do things. "Oh? Tell me more. What is it this time that poisons the waters between us?"

"You must first tell me that joke." Belyswë yawned and looked at the painting on the wall. "Then I will tell you Father's message for you."

A bogusly saccharine smile came onto Rhystórë's face. "Oh, I see. Trying to enforce your power and status now, are you, _Lord_ Belyswë?"

"That is not so, dear brother." He walked over and clasped Rhystórë's hands in his own theatrically. "I only want to feel that level of amusement as you have. I have been so troubled these days with matters so dark I cannot bear to speak of. Will you not tell me?"

Rhystórë laughed again. "I chuckle just to think of it! Yes, I shall tell you, dear brother, and relieve you of your burdens. Please, sit." Something very interesting glinted in his eyes as he motioned to the chair across from him. Belyswë let a baleful smile onto his face then sat back into his chair.

The lieutenant cleared his throat and pointed at an invisible speck of dust in the air. "It was a dark and stormy night. . .a man met his brother secretly in a cellar—no, a brothel. The meeting itself was not so secret, but he had a secret to tell in the meeting. Therefore, the meeting could indeed be said as secretive, yet not secret." Rhystórë smiled broadly, proud of his play on words; Belyswë's face was suddenly hard and cold. "That secret, I might seem to know, and perhaps I might not know. I heard Father's Chief Advisor did not arrive in Lindon."

"Lord Edrain? The poor man has perished at sea," Belyswë said, calming the hardness in his face.

"Perished at sea? Had the ship not only skimmed the shore of Eriador? I know where Lond Daer is on the map, dear brother, especially in relation to the Gulf of Lhûn."

Belyswë saw that he could not conceal himself and altered his demeanour, leaning forward to whisper into his brother's ear. "A queer wind blew out of the west, and the ship might have teetered a little and. . .Lord Edrain took a little tumble."

Rhystórë chuckled. "I did not think you would go to such lengths to murder our father, dear brother. Was the joke very amusing?"

"Indeed. Yet I believe you are mistaken, Lieutenant. I do not intend on murdering the Lord of Lond Daer. He is merely getting a little old, I would say. He could not make the long passage to Lindon to meet you tonight."

"Don't you have your own chunk of land back in Númenor, Lord Belyswë? Would it not be so strenuously difficult to rule both Lond Daer and Glandagol?" Rhystórë took another calculated sip of his wine.

"Which is why I have come to you, dear brother," Belyswë said. "How does the title of Lord of Lond Daer sound to you?"

Rhystórë was wary, but he did not show it. "Delightful." He lifted his golden drinking vessel and Belyswë did the same. "Let us drink until we are stupid, brother. Tonight is a good night to celebrate."

Belyswë had the most amusing smile on his face. "Indeed. Let us drink until the stars wheel above us and shower down upon us like gold."

"Like gold," Rhystórë echoed, and drank.

Belyswë really did drink himself into a stupor and fell down, snoring, onto the settee by the window, yet even then he did not reveal anything Rhystórë had wanted to hear. Rhystórë chuckled to himself as his brother's wine went clattering to the ground and sat back down, twirling a flask of silver pills in his fingers.

"These really do work, don't they?" he said aloud. He hadn't think they would, but he had drank six cups now and felt nothing. "Sobering pills," he mused, then laughed again. "Come clean up this mess, Nythiel," he called to the girl. She came hurrying down the stairs with a cloth and a pail.

Rhystórë watched Nythiel as she worked, thinking of his brother's offer. An odd change, wasn't it. . .Belyswë had always resented him for the death of their mother; she had died birthing Rhystórë and it seemed that everyone had loved her very much. Thus as a child, he had never received much care from anyone, not even his father, the Lord of Lond Daer. Rhystórë had lived seven years in Númenor then arrived in Lond Daer to be his father's servant when he was eight. Although his father favored Belyswë, he sent him and Rhystórë both back to Númenor to train as squires when they were twelve. The Lord of Daer seldom showed emotion.

"Go bring my dear brother to one of the guest rooms over there," Rhystórë said to Nythiel when she was finished. "He deserves a good night's sleep."


	25. Chapter XXIV

CHAPTER XXIV

* * *

— _Khamûl—_

His sister Khalentharia was a little girl of eight with long dark hair to her waist and warm brown eyes that was like a vestige of their father's mien. When she was younger, though it was not that much time ago, she had complained of the intolerable thickness of her hair and tried cutting it all off, but her mother had stopped her from doing so; it was custom for Wainrider women to leave their hair long and tied in a special braid that was distinctive from any other cultures. She could be terribly rebellious like her father had been in youth and in manhood, and sometimes Khamûl thought she was favored more than he was although he was the oldest and a boy. Khalentharia was quite different than the other girls—fierce like her father and stubborn like her mother. Sometimes Khamûl thought that when he saw Thaelin his mother looking at her daughter, she was looking at a mirror of herself. If Khalentharia caught her gaze, she would smile sadly, and other times she would look away and continue her drudgery. At times even Khamûl would be envious of his sister's seemingly overwhelming confidence in what she did.

The three of them were in their makeshift shelter now; Thaelin was making interim spears and sharpening them with her dagger, and Khamûl and Khalentharia were skinning the mice they had caught on the road and preparing the stew. There was nothing else to be caught on the road than rodents and lizards now, for winter was drawing nigh. Khamûl was unnerved by the thought of it; if they were out by themselves in the wild for much longer he was afraid that they would be wearing animal pelts for clothing and living like the prey they ate. How soon would it be before the process reversed, the predators prowling in the forest crossing their paths, and they became the prey themselves?

Thaelin handed the spear she was honing to Khamûl. "That'll have to do for now." It was quite flimsy actually, and the binding on the point looked so fragile that he was afraid that it would break off at the slightest attack. She began on the spear for Khalentharia.

"Mother," Khalentharia said, "perhaps you could make a two-pronged spear, to catch fish in the river." It seemed as if she spoke just to be rid of the silence. _Ivanned and Risto,_ the spectres still whispered into their ears. _Ivanned and Risto. Have you forgotten us so quickly?_

"That would be slightly more challenging," Thaelin remarked as she worked.

"It would hardly be possible," Khamûl countered, just to spite his sister.

Thaelin laughed. "That was rash."

Khamûl pursed his lips and dumped the wild fungus into the stew as Khalentharia and Thaelin exchanged a knowing look, trying not to laugh. They fell back into silence nonetheless; it seemed that the burden of Ivanned and Risto's deaths troubled them once more. _Have you forgotten us so quickly? You dare laugh when we are dead? You let us die, remember that. You let us die._

It was later when Khalentharia was asleep and the fire had gone down to embers that Khamûl went to his mother still working outside. The wind was bitingly cold like daggers upon his face; he felt that if he walked any faster his face would begin to bleed from the frigidity of it. As he stood beside his mother, he rubbed his hands together and breathed on them, hugging his arms together to keep in the warmth.

"Do you know how I first met your father?" Thaelin said at last.

Khamûl shook his head.

"Your father kidnapped me from my betrothed and made me a wife of his own," Thaelin mused, a curious smile on her face. "He was only eighteen, if I recall correctly."

"That is like Father," Khamûl said, and Thaelin laughed. "How old were you?"

"Ah—something around sixteen, I would say." She put the spear on the ground. "You should get to sleep, Khamûl. You'll be needing your strength in the morning and it is late."

Khamûl turned to go back to where Khalentharia was sleeping, but he halted in sudden decision and looked back. "Mother, I think I would like to be the Great Chieftain of the Wainriders someday."

Thaelin smiled wanly. "I'm sure you will, Khamûl. Now get to sleep."

He nodded and went slowly back to the shelter. Khalentharia did not awaken when he came, for he had walked in fairly quietly. He bundled himself in his cloak and turned to his side, staring at the embers of the fire. _We all strive so hard to be like Father,_ Rharlun had said to him once. Rharlun had been his half-brother, murdered by the new Chieftain in fire. Khamûl shifted his position, trying to bring himself to sleep, but his mind kept swimming back to the new ambition, perhaps even hunger, that he had newly invented.

The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders.

* * *

— _Taeloth—_

 _Morinórë_

Taeloth put one foot in front of the other lightly and in a moderate pace that she never made too sudden a noise or movement. She set the tray carefully on the table, her head bowed, and served Lord Undanya a cup of sweet wine. It was said that Lord Undanya was once one of the Avari, the Quendi that had refused to make the Great Journey in the history of the Eldalië. He was different than them, however, so one day he had gotten into some trouble and they tore his tongue out. The accusation was something around the likes of speaking treason on the king, but it really had been something more like a jape on the king's temper. He must have really liked to talk before he was silenced, Taeloth thought.

She slunk out of the chamber, Lord Undanya never turning to look at her; he had been writing at his desk when she entered, and he was writing at his desk when she departed. From the never-speaking slaves in the kitchens, she retrieved another cup of wine and went to serve the Lord of Morinórë. He went by so many names—God of the Earth, Lord of the Earth, Lord of Gifts, and now he was the Lord of Morinórë. Taeloth wondered what other titles he had.

"Your wine, my lord," Taeloth said when she entered the chamber, the tray balanced delicately upon her hands. She served him just the same as she had served Lord Undanya, her head bowed.

"I thank you." The Lord of Morinórë grasped the cup in his long, slender fingers and brought it before his lips yet did not drink from it. Taeloth had not had a chance to speak to him ever since she had arrived at Lúmë-mindon; she had been working with the others in the tower. He did not even know her name. She made to leave then, but made a sudden decision and turned back.

"My lord," Taeloth said, her tone asking for permission to speak.

The Lord of Morinórë tilted his head in approval.

"Am I to be a mere servant all my time here, my lord? I remember the words that you told me well: _I see a certain power in you. Power—it gives you strength, it gives you courage. It gives you many things. The Lord of Gifts can give you many things._ You said you would train me, my lord. Will you not honor your oath?"

The Lord of Morinórë laughed. "I swore no oath, little one. What you do not know is that I am training you now. You need to learn patience, child. I have been waiting for a thousand years and I am still waiting."

But Taeloth only lifted her chin. "I have been waiting for quite long myself. I have been waiting all my life for something greater than I have ever received. Though that may be nothing compared to as long as you have waited, my lord, it has been long for me. I think it is time for me to learn something new and have a change come into my life."

"Has a change not already come into your life? I don't recall being abducted by Easterlings a normal part of your life."

Taeloth refused to be swayed and fell suddenly to her knees, kneeling before him. "My lord, I beseech you."

The Lord of Morinórë watched her kneel with an amused smile on his face. "What are you willing to do for me?"

"Anything, my lord. Anything."

He was still smiling. "Very well. Get up." Getting to his feet, he clasped the girl's hands in his own then looked her in the eyes. "Can you dance, little one?"

"Dance?" She looked up, bewildered. "My lord, I do not understand—"

"You would do well to answer the question and not falter," the Lord of Morinórë said, his eyes suddenly fierce and daunting.

She glanced down. "Yes, I can." It was custom for the Eldalië to learn so.

The Lord of Morinórë smiled again. "Spectacular. You will dance while I meet with my council in two days' time."

"While you speak?" Taeloth did not understand.

"Yes," he said. "I would do well to find musicians too, for the task. You would not want to simply have empty dancing without any music, would you?"

Taeloth wanted to question the purpose of that but she decided to keep her mouth shut on the matter. "No, my lord. I would not want to have empty dancing without music. I will most certainly find musicians and dance at the council meeting in two days' time."

"Very well," the Lord of Morinórë said. "You are dismissed." He stood up and sat back into his chair, but Taeloth had not moved.

"My lord," she began slowly.

"Yes?" The Lord of Morinórë sipped on his wine.

"You said. . .you said that the elleth that the Wainriders found dead by the stag was your daughter. You said that she was the Lady of the Earth, and you were the God of the Earth."

"Please ask, dear child," the Lord of Morinórë said. "I cannot bear to see you so discontent."

"Who are you?" Taeloth asked. "Are you a Maia?"

At that the Lord of Morinórë painted a bitter smile upon his lips. "I once was one of the Maiar, indeed."

"Where are you from?" Taeloth had only grown more curious.

"Where all Maiar come from."

"But who are you?" she pressed. "Why is it that the others do not know of you back in Lindon?"

The Lord of Morinórë laughed. "I think they _do_ know of me, child. You may have the pleasure of knowing me as Lord Mairon, if it pleases you. That was what they used to call me."

She had not heard the name before. "I knew Lady Híthriel when she lived. If you are her father, then. . .My lord, I do not understand."

"You do not need to understand, child. At least not now. A servant's duty is to obey. You have already asked too many questions."

"I am sorry, my lord. Please forgive me. I will know my place better from now on."

The Lord of Morinórë was smiling again. It seemed that he smiled that amused smile very much. It was almost sinister, in a way. "You learn quickly, child. I know the true reason that you have brought this up. You want me to ask you for your name, because you cannot bear for me to be in ignorance. Or is it that you deem yourself necessary to be named?"

Taeloth kept her head bowed and did not reply.

"The name you had kept for yourself is nothing to me. Sindarin, by the looks of it. We speak Quenya here; only the lowest ones speak Orkish. It is a privilege to be speaking Quenya. Do not lose it once you have received it. You have already irked me somewhat with your Sindarin tongue, child, and you would do well to not speak." The Lord of Morinórë gazed out of the window. "Your name is Norkáwen." _Slave girl._ "Whoever you were before is gone and lost. It is behind you, because now you are my Norkáwen and none of that matters anymore, isn't that right?"

She did not dare speak because she did not know the word in Quenya.

"The words are _náto, herunya_ ," the Lord of Morinórë said.

"Náto," she whispered. "Herunya."

* * *

— _Églanim—_

Narvi, the Naugrim craftsman of Khazad-dûm, had recently come to Ost-in-Edhil for a visit to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and his old friend Celebrimbor. The renowned city he had come from was in a Golden Age; it had reached the height of its glory in wealth and craftsmanship. They profited mostly from the _mithril_ that they mined under the mountains of Hithaeglir, for that was the most precious metal of all, stronger than steel but much lighter in weight. Narvi himself and Celebrimbor had carved the mighty Doors of Durin which was the West-gate to the mining city.

It was because of this visit that Angamaitë and Telemmirë were left to take charge of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain for the night, for Narvi and Celebrimbor had gone to a place in the city to speak. Annatar, the other new recruit, had also vanished someplace else. He seemed to do that very much, and no one could ever really say where he had gone. However Angamaitë and Telemmirë were quite wearied of their duties, so instead they joined Narvi and Celebrimbor in their place in the city.

That place was something like a tavern lounge, in fact; they served liquor, and Églanim liked to consider anyplace that served liquor a tavern, which would quite evidently count most places in Arda. Yet he did not accompany them to the gathering, however, and instead stayed behind at the headquarters of Gwaith-i-Mírdain, left to the massive place in solitude.

For the most part, the candles were unlit, making the halls feel more vast and lonely that it likely should have been as Églanim wandered around. He had planned on finishing his project in the smithy, but when the candle died out he lost his resolve and put his work down, instead wandering aimlessly through the halls and occasionally stopping to admire the works of art upon the walls.

There was a place upon the summit of a tower in Gwaith-i-Mírdain's headquarters in which the entire expanse of the city could be seen. Églanim found himself there after a half an hour of wandering, staring out of the long, open window. Ost-in-Edhil was a big city as the capital of Eregion; if Mithlond was grand with the palace of High King of the Noldor Gil-galad, then Ost-in-Edhil was beautified with the architecture and art that the Gwaith-i-Mírdain brought with its presence.

In all his musing, Églanim heard the soft padding of feet coming up the stairs and turned from his place by the window to find Lady Galadriel standing at the doorway, quite bewildered.

"Lady Galadriel." Églanim dipped his head, just as baffled as she was. "Forgive me. I did not know you were coming."

"Ah, no matter." Lady Galadriel regained her composure. "May I ask—are you the new recruit of Gwaith-i-Mírdain?"

"I am one of them," Églanim told her. "There were two."

"I see." Lady Galadriel nodded in understanding. "Pleasant to meet you. What should I call you?"

"My name is Églanim, from Harlond," he said.

She nodded again. "And if you may, I would prefer to go by Lady Alatáriel rather than the other name."

"Of course, Lady Alatáriel," Églanim said.

She looked around the room. "Do you happen to know where Tyelpe is?"

"I apologize. . .Who?" Églanim inquired.

"Ah—I meant Celebrimbor. Do you know where Celebrimbor is?"

"He has gone somewhere with the others tonight, with Narvi of Khazad-dûm," Églanim said. "They likely will not return until late today, I fear."

"No matter." Lady Alatáriel waved it away. "And the other new recruit—has he gone also?"

Églanim frowned. "No, I do not think so. I have not seen him."

"What name does he go by?" she asked.

"Annatar," Églanim told her. "Lord of Gifts."

"Hm," Lady Alatáriel said.

"If I may inquire, why do you ask?" Églanim said.

Lady Alatáriel smiled fleetingly. "A matter from His Grace Gil-galad. Pray excuse me, Églanim. I'm afraid I must return."

"Novaer, híril nín." Églanim raised a hand in farewell.

She dipped her head. "Novaer, Églanim. I suppose I will see you around here sometime."

When Lady Alatáriel had left, he turned back to the window and found that the city below was lit and alive, like a fire.

* * *

— _Atharys—_

"When did Sindarin become an illegal language?" Atharys said, slipping out of where he had been standing behind the pillar. The Quendi girl had come when he and Mairon were speaking; when they heard her footsteps, Mairon had told him to step away.

"When I said it a half a minute ago." Mairon sipped at the wine that the girl had brought him. _Norkáwen,_ he had named her, and that is slave girl in the Quenya tongue. "I think the law will be in favor when our dear princess wakes again."

Atharys' eyes flicked up to him. "What do you mean to say."

"Speak to your father with more respect, won't you, sweet Prince Aþārithīr yondonya?" Mairon placed the cup lightly on the table and sauntered around his desk to stand before Atharys. "Do you know what your name means?"

"You have told me many times, Father," Atharys said.

Mairon chuckled. "Indeed I have, but now I will say again. Aþārithīr—Valarin for the appointed light upon a golden throne. If I am gone, you will rule in my stead. If I fall, you will take my place."

Atharys kept his eyes indifferent and said nothing.

"You asked me a question?" Mairon sat upon his desk in a lazy movement that irritated most people.

Atharys spoke softer this time. "What do you mean to say?"

"On. . .?" Mairon liked to pretend he did not understand and have people repeat themselves to please him.

"'I think the law will be in favor when our dear princess wakes again,' you said." Atharys looked directly at his father to detect any sense of ambivalence or untruth.

"Ah, yes." Mairon stood up again and took Atharys' arm. "Come, sit."

Atharys knew he could not refuse and did as he was bid. Mairon leaned back to grasp his cup and took another long drink, then stood and began pacing the room slowly.

"Your sister," Mairon said. "Is dead."

 _I knew that._ Atharys could scarcely keep his patience.

"Death is death." Mairon took another long pause as he walked to the window and stared outside. At the summit of the tower, a full expanse of the land could be seen—the bone-tree forest surrounded the eastern side and stretched across the terrain, on the southern side the Sea of Nûrn lay in the distance, but on the western and northern sides the budding foundations of a kingdom festered and grew. "But Mandos is only one Vala," he continued, "and our powers here have grown greatly."

Atharys lifted his head in astonishment. "You mean to steal her back from Mandos."

Mairon smiled bitterly and gave a slight nod of his head.

"If that fails—"

"We may bring the wrath of all the Valar upon us," Mairon said, "but they may be reluctant to do anything. Do remember, Atharys, the War of Wrath has only just ended a millennia or so ago. I know you are too young to remember."

Atharys pursed his lips. He did not like to be reminded of his age.

"That is why I am making Quenya the official language, at least for the more distinguished people," Mairon said. "The others can continue speaking that cursed Orkish tongue."

"You think she is still bitter about the Sindarin king's banishment of the old tongue."

A spiteful chuckle sounded in Mairon's throat. "Dear Atharys, you do not know how deep old grudges can cut, how long they can act as _poison_."

"She knows the girl, or if not the girl knows her. If the former, there is something that might be—"

"What girl?" Mairon said sharply.

Atharys narrowed his eyes, and when he spoke, the word was clipped. "Norkáwen."

"Ah, yes." Mairon sipped at his drink. "The wine she brought me is quite sweet."

Atharys knew that those words were not what they seemed to be. "There is one thing obstructing this all, however. How do you plan on deceiving a Vala with the power of Mandos?"

A wicked smile curved onto his lips. "Oh Atharys yondonya," Mairon whispered. "There is so much you don't know. I have always been so sensational at deception. Eregion will soon be at our disposal, and our princess of Morinórë will rise again."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Lúmë-mindon._ (Q) Barad-dûr.  


 _Nato, herunya._ (Q) Yes, my lord.

 _Novaer, híril nin._ (S) Farewell, my lady.

 _Yondonya._ (Q) My son.


	26. Chapter XXV

CHAPTER XXV

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

Narvi could really be quite bawdy and raucous when he drank. In fact, it seemed that that was the nature of all Naugrim, from the extended time that Tyelpe frequently spent with them. He visited Khazad-dûm often and joined in their feasts; he had become quite fluent in Khuzdûl by now, and could converse freely with the natives. A melancholy thought drifted in his head as he suddenly remembered how ecstatic his uncle Morifinwë had been when he learned the Taliska tongue. He had learned a bit of Khuzdûl too because of the trading alliances that he formed with the Naugrim. Nelyo, nevertheless, had been the most fluent in Khuzdûl especially after he became good friends with that Naugrim lord of Belegost, Azaghâl. They had fought alongside all the Eldalië in the Union during the times of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but Azaghâl had died in that battle, felled by the vile Glaurung.

 _Fëanorian,_ the others always called him. No, he was not. He did not want to be. He never asked his father to do what he did, never approved of it. Yet he too remembered loving his family once, before they fell into darkness, one by one, until they were all gone.

It was these hapless thoughts that poisoned his mind tonight and had him wandering out of the tavern before Narvi and the other of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were quite finished with their gathering.

"Tyelpe!" Narvi hiccuped from all the wine and seemed about to fall as he stood up from the bench. "Where do you think you're going?"

"You can hardly see straight, Narvi," Tyelpe said. "Do sit down, before you—"

Narvi raised his eyebrows in a absurdly comical way. "Hm. . .avoiding the question, are we?"

Tyelpe rolled his eyes. "I'm going out for a mere breath of air."

"All right, all right," Narvi said, waving his hand dismissively. "Have it your way."

Thus now Tyelpe had ambled out of the gathering and begun on a saunter upon the street with no place in particular to go to. He had not wanted to stay, but he had no place he wanted to go either. . .

"Wandering around so late at night?" Annatar drawled behind him.

Tyelpe turned. "Where have you been?"

"Business," Annatar said. "We all have our own doings, don't we?"

Tyelpe huffed and continued at a leisurely pace down the street, Annatar strolling loosely behind him.

"Didn't enjoy the gathering?" Annatar mused.

Tyelpe kept walking, his gaze directly forward. "Why does it seem that you know everything, Annatar, Lord of Gifts?"

Annatar chuckled. "All the truth is written upon your face, Tyelpe. I don't need informers to know that."

"Where did you reside in the First Age?" Tyelpe inquired. He had realized suddenly that they had not spoken much of personal matters, but had rather bonded over craftsmanship.

"Himring," Annatar said immediately, as if he had had the answer prepared.

Tyelpe was tempted to snort. "So you lived in the city of my late uncle."

Annatar, likewise, had a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Ah—yes. The redhead. He was quite an interesting one, that Noldo."

Tyelpe did not answer.

"And you?" Annatar asked. "Where are you from?"

"Don't mock me," Tyelpe said, resorting to a bitter chuckle. "I'm sure all in this city know of it. All Quendi living in a city know of it."

Annatar turned to one side, gazing at the holly trees that they passed. "All right then," he said softly.

"Himring," Tyelpe said.. "You must have joined the Union."

"I, in fact, did not." Annatar spoke quietly. "I was in Doriath at the time."

"A Noldo in Doriath. How interesting. I wonder of the great kindness dearest King Thingol must have given you."

"Such great kindness," Annatar agreed. "His Grace was very kind." He paused. "Lady Alatáriel came by looking for you today."

"Artanis?" Tyelpe looked up at this. "At the headquarters?"

"Yes," Annatar said, nodding. "Églanim told me of it."

"What did she want?" Tyelpe asked.

"Églanim did not say," Annatar said, "but it seems that he may want to speak with you of it in private."

"Hm." They were approaching the headquarters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain now, and promptly they went in through the western gate. On the other side of the archway was a garden adorned with a multitude of flowers and numerous ilex. Annatar brushed his hands upon the leaves as they wandered by, picking some of the holly berries off the boughs.

"You can't eat these, can you?" Annatar said.

"No," Tyelpe told him. "They make you sick."

"Isn't that an interesting feeling?" Annatar mused. "To be sick when it a gift received by only the Atani?"

"You would know," Tyelpe said. "You're the Lord of Gifts." He wandered into the corridor to his chambers. "How long do you plan on following me for?"

"You must be sorely mistaken, Tyelperinquar. I am not following you, but merely relieving you of the loneliness that you so often feel. On the other hand, my chambers would be reached through this very same corridor."

Tyelpe sighed. "All right then, have it your way."

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

She did not, after all, have to find musicians; Lord Mairon found them for her and had them sent to her ere she had any time to even prepare for the occasion. The three musicians sent also happened to be handmaidens like herself, but at Mairon's command they bathed and dressed her in a fine silver dress that complemented her eyes and hair exquisitely as if she were some highborn lady, not a bastard girl and a slave.

The council room was quite a lavishly decorated chamber. It was not massive as the throne room must be, yet it was not small either. There was just enough room for everyone to have their own personal space. The design of the chamber could be said to be divided in a five by five arrangement, with the dais for dancing or other things at the top one-fifth and the long rectangular council table taking up the rest of the four-fifths. The musicians played behind the dais in soft tones as the lords conversed; they comprised of a lutist, a guitarist, and a harpist.

Lord Mairon himself was not present at the council meeting, which was quite unexpected to Norkáwen and all the rest of the lords. In his absence, Atharys, his part Maia son, took charge. He was the Prince of Morinórë, and the others said amongst themselves that his birth name was Aþārithīr, which meant something in Valarin that they all seemed to fear. When Norkáwen looked at Atharys, she absently thought of the girl she used to know in Harlond—Narbeleth, although the latter had moved far away from her some time ago, even ere the girl before Norkáwen had left herself. But Norkáwen the bastard slave girl had never been in Harlond, and she had never known a girl named Narbeleth.

Atharys had dark hair that was down and undone although he wore a silver circlet upon his head like a crown. His eyes were violet, however, and when he was angry, flecks of scarlet would show themselves forth in his irises. The garb he wore resembled the beauty of the night sky; it was the very same hue as his hair and adorned with intricate diaphanous jewels that scintillated when he moved. He carried himself with a sort of a demeanour of dignity, lifting his chin, so as to make every lord who came before him save his father lower his head and bow in reverence. They all did that now and murmured a greeting as he entered the room, walking brusquely toward the council table unlike his father's usual seemingly lazy amble.

Along the rectangular council table sat an assembly consisting of four other lords in addition to Atharys. The one on Atharys' right, who had just seated himself at the head of the table, was a balding middle-aged man donned in a brown-hued travelling cloak, and he had a skittish look on his face, verifying his uneasiness of the Prince of Morinórë—this was Lord Angaino. He likely had been an Easterling yet called a traitor by his own kind for joining the enemy; Lord Mairon had conquered a few tribes under his dominion and made them into his workers, the foundation of his kingdom.

On Atharys' left was a Quendi, a Noldorin one by the looks of it, although he had hair of a lighter brown rather than the usual dark of his kind, and he always put on a stern countenance. Whenever someone looked or spoke to him, he would lift his chin as if to enforce that he had authority in this place, as if to prove that he was just as powerful as the others. Norkáwen soon found that his name was Lord Nínquë. He wore garb similar to Atharys as if to mimic him—a dark sapphire coat along with a cloak of the same tone.

By Lord Nínquë was a Maia called Lord Tiríssë, and that is vigilance in Quenya. Norkáwen did not know what he stood vigil for, but he carried himself in a way that seemed like he was always watching and waiting for something; he hardly moved and did so only when necessary and in the most contained ways possible. His eyes were blue and melancholy like the sea and his hair silver like the moon.

Across from Lord Tiríssë and next to Lord Angaino was a young Sinda who would have been somewhere in his early twenties in Atani years—they called him Lord Hestáryn. He had swept into the room last with an insolent smile on his full lips and his grey cloak billowing behind him like a cloud. It seemed as if he had tried to make that smile apologetic yet it had turned out presumptuous after all his efforts. Lord Hestáryn flicked his chestnut hair over his shoulder as he took his seat and folded his hands before the table.

As all of those people were gathering at the table—Atharys, Angaino, Nínquë, Tiríssë, and Hestáryn—Norkáwen was dancing upon the dais. It was quite an unhurried dance, mostly balancing and poses; if she did otherwise she would be tired too quickly, and it might divert the attention of the assembling lords. The three musicians plucked solemnly at their instruments as she danced, their countenances indifferent and beautiful, for if they were not, the lords would not like them very much. Now Norkáwen lifted her right leg behind her in a penché, her arm extended in a first arabesque. As she looked up, she met the eyes of Lord Hestáryn, who simpered at her. But she was no one, just a little slave girl, so she lowered her eyes and shifted into an attitude.

Just as Atharys was about to commence the council meeting, Lord Undanya, the Avar Norkáwen had served a cup of sweet wine not two days back, came sweeping into the room. Bowing before Atharys, his eyes muttered an apology for his lateness, for he had no tongue, and he took his seat beside Lord Tiríssë, the Maia.

It was not until they began formally speaking that Norkáwen realized she would not understand most of what they were saying, for they spoke in the old tongue. Over the past two days, she had learned a few words and phrases from the musicians that had been assigned to her, but still she could not understand very much. So instead, she watched and observed their faces, their movements, their reactions. She found that she could guess parts of what they spoke of; she heard Wainriders somewhere and Noldor and Gil-galad.

They spoke some, argued, angered each other, and regained a phlegmatic composition. Norkáwen found that Lord Atharys did not speak very much, but was silent and observant of every intricate thing that the others did. Lord Tiríssë did not speak very much either; only when the discussion became passionate did he speak. It was mostly Lord Hestáryn and Lord Angaino who spoke, in fact, or rather argued. Occasionally Lord Undanya would put up a hand and write something on a piece of paper for them to read, but he mostly spoke with eyes. He was not Calaquendi, thus he did not have the ability to use ósanwë.

Hestáryn was in the middle of denouncing Angaino when the High Lord of Morinórë strode in the room. Immediately Angaino fell silent, but Hestáryn refused to be daunted, until Mairon seated himself at the head of the table opposite of Atharys and smiled a very daunting smile.

To Norkáwen's surprise, Lord Mairon spoke in Sindarin. "What complications do we have here, dear Lord Hestáryn?"

At Mairon's implication, the intuition to speak Sindarin suddenly surfaced. "I was merely telling Lord Angaino how foolish it would be to conquer all the Easterling tribes by force, my lord. Nothing more."

"I see," Mairon said. "For my part, I do agree with that. Our beautiful armies have not yet blossomed. . .thus we cannot yet bestow the gift of Morinórë upon them. Lord Angaino, must I tell you again of the power of words? You are a creaky man, I must tell you; you should know this. What can swords do against the likes of you?"

Lord Angaino bowed his head. "I was wrong, my lord. Forgive me, and I will learn from my wrongdoings."

Mairon smiled balefully. "How delightful. Yet I must say. . .why do we continue on matters that have already been gone over, when we should be discussing what next to do?"

"I am sorry, my lord," Lord Angaino said, his eyes cast to the ground.

"I do hope you are." Mairon turned to Atharys. "What progress has been done today?"

"Lord Undanya has brought us tidings of the Númenóreans in Lindon," Atharys said. "He has planted numerous informers there."

"It seems that one of their lieutenants is particularly in disfavor of the Noldorin High King Gil-galad, which has provided evidence of some stirring strife amongst the Númenóreans and the Eldar," Lord Nínquë said.

Mairon raised his eyebrows. "Oh? What has he done?"

"This man has openly told one of his handmaids of the revolt he plans to begin."

"Revolt?"

Nínquë cleared his throat. "Something along those lines. It seems his brother, a lord of Númenor, is promising him the lordship of Lond Daer for Gil-galad's head."

"Names?" Mairon said.

"The lieutenant is called Rhystórë and the lord Belyswë," Lord Nínquë told him.

"Hm." Mairon turned to Atharys. "Anything else?"

"The Easterling boy you asked to track is scratching a living off rocks with his mother and sister and two dead brothers," Atharys said. "The wild is not kind to them."

The corners of Mairon's mouth tilted upward in something like a smile. "It never is."

They spoke more of other things for an hour or so until Mairon clasped his hands together and nodded at the lords.

"The council is called to an end," he said. "Atharys, if you would stay."

Mairon and Atharys stayed seated as lords Nínquë, Tiríssë, Hestáryn, Undanya, and Angaino filed out of the room, the latter limping a little as he went. When they were gone, Atharys flicked his eyes up at Norkáwen and said something to his father in Valarin.

"Ah, yes," Mairon said in Sindarin. "No matter."

Atharys narrowed his eyes and continued in Valarin, speaking with a more dire tone now, but Mairon only smiled.

"Don't be troubled, dear Aþārithīr," Mairon crooned. "Speak what must be spoken, and it will be done much swifter."

Atharys leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Go on, my lord."

Mairon clapped his hands at the musicians. "If you would."

The three musicians got up stiffly, bowed, and went from the room. Norkáwen made to follow them, but Mairon spoke again.

"I think Atharys and I would enjoy some more performances from our dear Norkáwen, wouldn't we?"

Norkáwen halted in her steps and went slowly back to the dais. The musicians were gone now, and it was only Mairon, Atharys, and Norkáwen in the room.

Mairon turned and smiled at her. "You are from Lindon, Norkáwen?"


	27. Chapter XXVI

CHAPTER XXVI

* * *

 _—The Númenórean Lieutenant—_

The sea made him feel free, liberated, like he was a bird flying free upon the wind. When he raised his arms he felt as if he had wings, and he almost wanted to leap onto the lapping waves when he knew he would fall. Wasn't there that famous tale of the peredhil elleth who cast herself into the sea in order to escape the sons of Fëanor at Sirion? It was said that Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, bore her up upon the waves in the guise of a white bird, and in that form she flew to her husband to his ship Vingilótë with the jewel upon her breast. Rhystórë wished such miracles would happen to him if he leapt into the water—he was almost tempted to do so.

"Like the sea much, little brother?" Lord Belyswë said behind him.

Rhystórë turned. "As much as you love our father."

Lord Belyswë chuckled and rolled his eyes. "What a delightful comparison."

"It was no jape," Rhystórë said.

"I am even more delighted to hear that, dear brother." Belyswë clapped his brother on the back. "Rest assured, it seems the sea has no plans of tossing you overboard just yet."

"For that I am very glad." Rhystórë sighed. "My handmaids are retching all over my cabin belowdecks," he added irrelevantly.

"Shouldn't matter to you. They have to clean their own shit up themselves."

Rhystórë settled his fingers on the rail. "Yet I have no interest in having my cabin reeking of my handmaids' intestines."

"A valid judgement," Belyswë said. "How many of them have you fucked?"

Rhystórë snorted. "Must you pry into my business, brother?"

"All right, all right. A mere question, that is all." Belyswë had a impertinent smile upon his lips that stunk of virility. "But I do wonder."

"All of them except the youngest." Rhystórë had made a great effort to keep his voice cool and indifferent; his brother was not a man one would want to humiliate himself for.

Belyswë's controlling smile only grew wider. "How delicious, little brother."

Very interesting diction, Rhystórë was thinking when the captain came forward and bowed before Lord Belyswë. He was a stocky, balding man in his forties who walked with a sort of a waddle.

"My lord, we are steadily set upon the voyage." They had left the port in Lindon only a half an hour ago. "We will arrive shortly in two days."

Belyswë clasped his hands together. "Excellent. Do be sure my brother here is not swept away by those daunting waves." He waved a hand towards the serene sea whose light waves lapped upon the sternpost of the ship.

Rhystórë reddened with Belyswë's belittlement. Ilúvatar damn it. No matter how hard I might try, it seems to happen every time.

"As you wish, my lord." The captain bowed deeply and departed.

As Rhystórë remained turned to the sea, Belyswë unsheathed his dirk and began to clean his fingernails. "Excited for your upcoming lordship of Lond Daer?"

"I do not know what you mean to do with our father—" Rhystórë began.

"He is getting old," Belyswë reassured him. "Have I not already told you that?"

Rhystórë had gone through many complications with Gil-galad to make the voyage today. It was meant for him to leave soon to Hithaeglir to carry out another investigation, but he had reassigned the task to another man more capable of the job, or so he called it. Gil-galad had been wary of the request of his sudden departure and Rhystórë warier, but the former had given him leave nonetheless. His duty in Lond Daer, allotted by Gil-galad, was to facilitate the trade and shipbuilding industry and bring a report back to Lindon. Although there were officials in the city, it had been a while since they last checked their power. When Rhystórë was lord, however, it would seemingly become wholly in Gil-galad's control.

"I did not come here to be fed fallible half-truths," Rhystórë said. "Half truths are also half lies. You would tell me what you intend to do in Lond Daer, or perhaps this voyage will not go so nicely."

Belyswë laughed. "What would you do? Sink the ship?" When Rhystórë did not answer, he went on. "Oh dear brother, I cannot tell you everything. Sometimes the truth is too hard to tell all at once."

"What truth?" Rhystórë said sharply. "Is Father already dead?"

"Dear me, no. Brother, you are a lieutenant—you excel at following orders. I need you to do this one more time, for me, before you will have to do that no longer."

Rhystórë had only become more dubious of his brother. "You aren't telling me things."

"Since when did we tell each other things? We have been too distant, brother, over the years. Even since we were small children, we never communicated much. I've always wanted the privilege to have a brother close to me, and I have that now. We are together, Rhystórë, at last. Not separated over the sea, or by spiteful cities. This game we shall play together, and prevail."

"If we are playing a game, then you should tell me the rules before we begin."

Belyswë considered it. "Very well." He sighed. "This is a dangerous game, brother."

"That I know."

"And a slow one. When I say Father is old, I am saying that perhaps something might require him to return to Númenor and embark upon a long toilsome voyage," Belyswë said. "Do you understand now?"

"And what might that be?" Rhystórë said.

Belyswë shrugged. "Perhaps a complication with the king."

"Tar-Aldarion?"

"Perhaps."

Rhystórë nodded slowly. "And after that?"

"Why, dear brother," Belyswë drawled. His eyes glinted like a jewel when it catches the light. "The game continues."

* * *

 _—Tyelpe—_

When he opened his door that morning, he was certainly not expecting to find Artanis waiting in the corridor for him. She wore a jade-hued dress that fitted comfortably to her form, Tyelpe noticed. She had been leaning against the doorframe, and as he stood there dumbfounded she brushed past him without a word into his chambers.

"You could have knocked," Tyelpe said doltishly when he came into the room. Artanis was lounging on his settee as if it was her own; she had kicked off her shoes and leaned back so much on the cushions she was nearly lying down.

"You have quite a nice place here, Tyelpe," Artanis commented.

Tyelpe did not know what to say to that. "I designed it."

"It is nicely designed," Artanis said. "Do you have any tea?"

"Tea? Right. Of course." Tyelpe hurried out of the room to prepare it, leaving her to stretch on the settee. His hands were clumsy, they always were in the mornings; he spilled the tea over the rim and onto the table but took no notice of it and presented it to Artanis on a crimson tray.

"Thank you, coz," she said, crossing her legs as she leaned forward to receive the cup.

Tyelpe set the tray on the table beside the settee and left his own cup on the tray as he turned to Artanis. "Are you angry at me?"

"Why would I be?"

He shrugged. "I seem to have concerns when my dearest coz comes to my chambers and demands to be served tea as she lounges upon my couch."

"Is it uncommon me to do so?" she asked.

"I would say so," Tyelpe admitted. "I was not expecting to see you this morning."

"Oh, is that why you were so surprised? I could have never guessed!" Her words reeked of morose sarcasm.

"How is your child?" he inquired.

"You're changing the topic," Artanis said, narrowing her eyes.

"Églanim told me you were looking for me."

"You mean I told Églanim who told Annatar who told you that I was looking for you," Artanis amended.

"Something like that." Tyelpe leaned backwards to retrieve his own cup of tea. Artanis herself was holding the cup delicately in her fingers but not drinking any of it. "Would you like breakfast?"

"No," Artanis said. "I am going to say this directly, so you understand me very clearly."

"Go on," Tyelpe encouraged.

"I don't like Annatar, as Lady of Eregion. And neither does my husband."

Tyelpe grew defensive. "What has he done to spite you?"

Artanis produced a crinkled letter out of her sleeve and handed it to Tyelpe. "He's been to Lindon before this."

Tyelpe scanned the letter. It was addressed to Artanis from Gil-galad. "So?"

"He wants something," Artanis said.

"Everyone wants something." Tyelpe looked through the letter once more. "Where is your evidence?"

"Intuition." Artanis took her feet off the table and began pacing the room.

"Did you suspect him before Artanáro sent the letter?" he inquired.

"Yes. Look, Tyelpe. When I try to reach out with ósanwë, I can feel the ripples of the fëa pulsing. It is very powerful, more powerful than it should be. But when I try to communicate with it, there is a shield in place so strong that even I cannot penetrate."

"Hm," Tyelpe said.

Artanis planted her hands on her hips. "Is that all you have to say?"

"You cannot assault people without evidence."

She threw her arms in the air in exasperation. "Fine! Fine." She stalked over to him, snatched the letter out of his hands, and marched out of the door.

Tyelpe sprang up. "Artanis—" Yet when he looked out, the corridor was deserted. The wind was lifting leaves into the air and casting them away.

* * *

 _—Atharys—_

"All of that just to ask the girl if she was from Lindon?" Atharys demanded. "She would have told you that willingly anyhow."

"Dear Atharys, you are so ill at ease. You must learn patience. That is the most important skill of all." Mairon remained in his seat at the council table as Atharys stood up and began pacing the room. "Very crucial for deception, yes."

"You are avoiding the question."

"I wanted to test her," Mairon said. "To see her reactions."

Atharys halted in his pacing and pursed his lips. "That is your excuse?"

"It is no excuse." Mairon smiled pleasantly. "It is the bare truth, yet perhaps not the sole and only one. Do you remember how sweet the wine she brought me was?"

"What do you mean to do with her?"

"Norkáwen? Nothing. She would only get herself killed and us revealed if I sent her anywhere."

"Then why did you ask?"

Mairon laughed. "Oh, Aþarithir yondonya. So many doubts in me."

"They are not doubts."

"All right then, if you must have it that way." Mairon stood and drifted over to the window.

Atharys had his arms crossed now. "How is the progress in Eregion?"

"Splendid," Mairon told him, "yet perhaps not splendid enough for you, as the process is slow. But the Lord of Eregion does like me very much, yes."

"Celeborn?" Atharys was bemused.

"Oh, pardon me. The soon-to-be Lord of Eregion. Lord Tyelperinquar."

At this Atharys was even more incredulous, perhaps even angry. "You mean to—We don't have the forces, the arms—"

"No, not yet. But we will soon. Yet that is not what I mean to say. Sometimes you are so green, Atharys. What did I just reprimand Lord Angaino for? The Easterling one. He wanted to storm the troops but words. Words are so much more powerful and are not so costly, most of the time."

Atharys was silent.

"Don't you worry of it, Atharys. You will have to luxury of seeing this all unravel splendidly. Tyelpe will become Lord of Eregion soon enough. And as for the Númenórean Lieutenant you were speaking of. . ."

"What of it?" said Atharys.

"He will be a very nice pawn in this game," Mairon mused.

Atharys began pacing the room again. "And the elleth?"

"Which elleth?" Mairon inquired.

Atharys pressed his lips together, as if it required a great effort to say the words. "My sister."

"Ah." Mairon clasped his hands together and smiled broadly. "Núlë."

"When?"

"When Eregion is won," Mairon said. "For by then the project will be complete."

"What you're making in the forges in Orodruin. . ." The question was left unsaid.

"Yes," Mairon answered. His voice was suddenly eerily quiet. "Perhaps. . .you should see soon. I have worked very diligently on it."

Atharys nodded slowly, noting every movement Mairon made as he spoke. "What is her name? You have never told me."

Mairon seemed to be drifting out of a reverie. He had a pensive, distant look in his eyes that reflected of a memory long ago he had forgotten and suddenly remembered again. The ghost of a smile played in those faraway eyes and they focused on something out of the window as he returned to the present. "That name she knew herself by will now be forsaken."

How many Norkáwens must he make until he is content? Atharys watched his father and waited.

"Híthriel is not her true name," Mairon said. "She was given the name by her mother when she was six to elude the prying strangers because her name was Quenya. The Sindarin name was, in sooth, my invention. I had suggested it to Mirerúnya one summer night in Aman, when I jested of getting her with child. She was dismayed, of course, by the idea of a child; the Valar would not be quick to forgive her for such adultery. I was quite astounded, in fact, when I heard that Mirerúnya had named our child the ataressë I had given to her.

"Even my own daughter has not told me her Quenya name. Ironic, isn't it, that she was made by Mirerúnya and I one summer night yet she became a child of winter. Of course, in the beginning she was a child of summer—Mirerúnya tried so hard to shelter her from everything out there with that little lonely cottage by the sea, but she could have never succeeded in doing so. No, I was not the one who commanded her to be taken in the Battle of the Lammoth. I did not even know that she was alive. I did not know that the child was alive, and the child was abandoned somewhere in a forest by the sea, left for the wolves. But the wolves did not come that night, and that Noldorin prince Findekáno found the child starving in the Firth of Drengrist and brought her to Hísilómë.

"And you, Atharys." Mairon turned to him. "Sometimes I wonder if you are a child of summer or a child of winter."

Atharys did not answer to that, and remained silent and still. You killed her yourself, he was thinking over and over in his mind. The words were like a thrumming tattoo that he could not forget nor forsake.

Mairon's eyes grew unfocused again, and he turned to the window, thinking. There was a lingering silence that stretched and throbbed in the energies around.

"Hrysívë," he murmured, "child of winter, reborn again." He turned to Atharys. "I have something to show you. Come." Turning from his place by the window, he strode out of the council room, Atharys following.

It was nighttime now, and the corridors were dimly lit by torches so that when they walked it seemed that those that they had forsaken were lingering all around as spectres in the ashes. The fires flickered so much that Atharys could never get a clear view of his father's face; the shadows dancing on his face seemed a mask in itself for all the shapes and guises they made.

They went down numberless flights of stairs and entered a small chamber which Mairon had unbolted. Inside it was musty and dark, as if there were no windows nor any doors that had been opened in a long time, and even being part Maia, Atharys could hardly see anything in the room save shapes and shadows.

"Give us a little light, will you, Aþarithir yondonya?" Mairon whispered into the darkness.

Atharys slipped to the corridor and retrieved a flickering torch. Light crept into the gloom of the chamber gradually, seeping over the musty floors. Faintly Atharys could feel the pulsing of another fëa nearby. . .it was another half Maia, it seemed. Mairon stepped forward as Atharys came behind reluctantly and warily. A clank came from the other side of the chamber, the clank of chains.

"Come, Aþarithir yondonya." Mairon held out a barely perceptible hand, half encased in shadow. "Lift the torch just a little more."

He did, and the light of the fire fell upon a terrible form bound in shackles that were not irons but something like slithering snakes who wriggled at the sight of the torch, binding and squeezing the captive ever tighter, lifting their heads in unison and hissing. The captive himself had a rugged cloak draped over him so Atharys could not see his face, but Mairon beckoned him closer and bid him crouch to look at his face. Atharys scarcely remembered doing so, but then suddenly he was staring into the face that was not a face—it was empty and yawning like a pit. His eyes hurt to look, and he realized dimensions were melding together as he did so. Then as he passed the threshold, the empty abyss of a face was gone and he was looking at a wight, the phantom of someone that had once been. . .

"What did you do to him?" Atharys whispered.

Mairon's voice was low and uncanny as the whispering of leaves at the first wind of winter. "This was once Mirnetyo, son of Thuringwethil the Lady of Secret Shadow. Your sister killed him after he got her with child."

Atharys had gone rigid at the shock of the revelation, and Mairon was dauntless enough to laugh.

"You brought him out of Mandos. . ." Atharys was stumbling over his words.

"Something of the sort," Mairon drawled. "Now don't you see? This, Aþarithir yondonya, is proof that winter flowers bloom even in darkness."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Núlë._ (Q) Necromancy.

 _Yondonya._ (Q) My son.

* * *

 _A/n: Since it would be very inconvenient for the story to follow the exact years and the timeline in the annals of the second age, I have altered the dates a little to accomodate the short lives of our Atani characters. Thus now most of the Númenórean rulers have been omitted and are replaced by mostly Tar-Aldarion until Ar-Pharazôn. Thank you all for your understanding and I hope this doesn't bother you too much because it sure bothered me :)_


	28. Chapter XXVII

CHAPTER XXVII

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

"Have you seen Annatar?" he asked Églanim.

The Sinda shook his head. "Not since yesterday. You could check his chambers." He had bending over something small and glinting in the forge, but had looked up when Tyelpe spoke.

"Ah. Thank you for the suggestion. . .how are the rings playing out?" Tyelpe asked, walking over.

"They are unlike anything I have ever seen," Églanim said. "With the _sairina_ that Annatar has taught us, they are something extraordinary that I think will be a lasting impact in our history."

"He says that they are not yet at the full extent of the power that we can extract from them," Tyelpe said as he admired the ring. "There is much more to learn."

"That I do not doubt." Églanim dusted his hands off as Telemaitë and Angamaitë entered the room.

"I will leave you to your tinkering then," Tyelpe said, and departed with an inclination of his head as Églanim did likewise.

Taking Églanim's suggestion, he headed down the corridor to Annatar's chambers. He passed through the cloister above the meres of Glanduin shadowed by the mountains of Hithaeglir, then over a stone bridge which connected the east side of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain's headquarters to the west side. There were guards posted here and there, but watching for what he did not know. Gil-galad in the west claimed that some shadow was brooding in the east, and Ost-in-Edhil was in the east. Someone like his grandfather Fëanáro would have taken it for some jape although he knew quite clearly that Gil-galad was not the person for such quips.

Annatar's quarters were near those of the new recruits though it had fairly been some time since they had come. The entrance was shadowed by a column of holly trees, Tyelpe noticed, as he raised his hand to knock. The place seemed to be somewhat abandoned; perhaps Annatar had retired for the day, as he had seemed to be exhausted lately. With the thought Tyelpe stayed his hand for a moment. If Annatar was in fact resting, it might hardly be the most beneficial thing to disturb it. Tyelpe was about to return to the forges when he heard the sound of glass shattering inside, so he turned back to the door and knocked.

Annatar appeared in the doorway reasonably unkempt and looking more wearied than usual. His customarily flawless hair was tousled and unbound and his garb was rumpled as if he had just thrown it on after returning from a trip to the Sea of Núrnen. He had one hand braced upon the doorway, as though he was fighting the urge to wheeze, and looking up, he gave Tyelpe an apologetic smile.

"Just come from somewhere?" Tyelpe asked.

"Precisely so." Annatar, realizing his impertinence, straightened much as he could manage and beckoned Tyelpe in. "Come in and have some tea."

Annatar vanished from the doorway and Tyelpe entered the room after him. The place was hardly furnished even after all the time he had stayed here, as if he had scarcely any time to dedicate to his own leisurely things—the walls were blank and unpainted, the lounge room empty, and the cot unslept in. The kitchen had to be the most inhabited out of them all, yet only because the patterns of the stone wall made it seem less bare. The counters where the baskets and kettles were supposed to be were as empty as the rest of the place had been, save a few bottles of the fiery Sindarin wine.

"It is the fermented kind," Annatar explained of the tea as he slid it across the table to Tyelpe. Yet as he made to grasp the cup, he seemed to be thinking of other things and knocked it over instead, the tea spilling all over the table.

"I'm sorry—pardon me," Tyelpe said, but Annatar was already cleaning the mess up.

"No matter," Annatar was saying. "You must be exhausted from all the work the Gwaith is putting into you."

Tyelpe almost laughed; it was the appearance of Annatar himself that reflected sleepless nights. "Yet not so much as you, Artano."

This time it was Annatar that laughed. "I've had a lot of scheming to do."

"Scheming?"

"Plan-making."

"I know what scheming means," Tyelpe said, not all too irritably.

"Scheming on formulas for the rings." Annatar sounded so sinister when he said the word _scheming;_ it was an odd choice of diction to use the word anyhow. His tone leaked of some sardonic jape that only he would understand.

"You needn't worry of them so much," Tyelpe told him. "What is so pressing that you must finish the task now?"

"Intuition," Annatar drawled in a voice that had Tyelpe wondering if he had overheard his conversation with Artanis. He handed Tyelpe a fresh cup of tea, but the latter did not touch it.

"Where did you come from just now?" Tyelpe inquired as an attempt to unwind the tension.

"A sleepless night," Annatar said. "And you?"

"Something like that," Tyelpe admitted. "Artanis seems to be troubled of late."

An interesting smile played at Annatar's lips. "Ah, the Lady of Eregion."

"Yes," Tyelpe said, hesitating to say more.

Annatar caught the notion and leaned forward. "What troubles you, dear Tyelpe?"

Tyelpe found no purpose to concealing it from him. "Artanis seems not to. . .trust you."

"Trust me on what?" Annatar was either oblivious or playing innocent. Tyelpe didn't know which.

"She said you had gone to Mithlond before this."

"I did." Annatar turned from where he had been busying in the kitchen and moved to sit before Tyelpe at the table. "I was looking for somewhere to spread the arts of forging and craftsmanship, and I thought the capital of Lindon would be a good place to begin. Then I heard of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and came thus to Ost-in-Edhil."

"Oh," Tyelpe said, unsure of what to think. "I see."

Annatar smiled and offered the tea to Tyelpe again. "Like any of this?"

"All right." Tyelpe sipped some of the tea and frowned at it. "Fermented tea, you said?"

Annatar nodded. "You don't like it?"

"I've just never had it before," Tyelpe said, setting the cup down. "Artanis has been awfully fiery as of late."

"So I've been told," Annatar said. "Perhaps it was the commotion of birthing the child."

A smirk played at Tyelpe's face. "You would call Celebrían a commotion?"

Annatar shrugged, deaf to the jape. "Children are like that."

Tyelpe went back to the subject of Artanis. "I hope it is not her husband. . ."

"Do you suspect anything?" Annatar asked, suddenly interested.

Tyelpe was taken aback. "Of what?"

Annatar immediately abandoned the topic. "Disregard that, if you will. But it does seem as if she has other plans not so favorable to the people of Eregion."

Tyelpe remembered Lord Nestadren of Rhaendach and considered Annatar's words. "Not many like that Gil-galad is working with the Númenóreans."

"Yet Lady Alatáriel approves of it. And people are still angry of those they had lost in Hithaeglir when the Easterlings ambushed the Eldalië camp. What does she do to accommodate their desires? Their losses? Nothing."

"She told me that she could not feel your fëa when she reached for it through ósanwë," Tyelpe said suddenly.

"Does she, now?" Annatar's eyes were vicariously bright. "Why do you not try?"

"I don't have the gift," Tyelpe said. "It is inherited."

"I could teach you." Annatar leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You can do it, with the rings, when they are completed."

"Really?" Tyelpe was more than surprised; he had always wanted the ability of ósanwë.

"Many of your kin can, why can't you?" Annatar had a look of intense passion upon his face. "Do you not remember your coz Findaráto? He nearly overcame the great necromancer Thû, known as _Sauron_ to you, before he fucked and killed him."

Tyelpe rose to his feet. "What did you say?"

Annatar bowed his head, hiding his face. "Forgive me for my rash words. I was not thinking." He opened his mouth as if to say more, but no words came out.

Tyelpe looked at him coldly. "Mind your tongue, or Thû the necromancer is like to tear it off in your sleep."

"Tyelpe—"

"I know everyone knows the tale of his death," Tyelpe said stiffly, "but I would prefer not to be reminded of it."

Annatar looked down. "I'm sorry for what I said. I—I don't know why. . ." He trailed off, and the sentence was never finished.

"Or perhaps you do," Tyelpe said softly, and left the room.

* * *

— _Atharys—_

The sight of Phanaikelūth hovering in the sky was somehow unnerving tonight, as if something was watching over him and everything he did. It was said that Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the Winds, heard and saw all, but Atharys could scarcely detect his presence. Phanaikelūth seemed much more omnipotent, lingering in the firmament with her wan, cold face.

He had never been in Aman; he had been born late in the First Age, apparently during the War of Wrath or something of the sort. He didn't remember any of it, if it was true. Once he had dared to ask his father who his mother was—then he had been green and insolent, yet as Atharys said this, Lord Hestáren happened to pass by the hall with an impertinent smirk. _Some whore who died birthing you because the fire in your blood consumed the light of her hröa,_ Hestáren had said. Then as if he had spoken no rash words, Lord Hestáren turned to Mairon and bowed.

"Forgive me for intruding, my lord," he said. "I was coming to report the news on Harlond."

"Ah." Mairon gave a brisk nod to Atharys. "We will speak later, Aþarithir yondonya." Then he waved him aside as if none of it had ever happened nor mattered.

Atharys could remember the moment fairly clearly. It was the first time he had realized how insignificant he was, even if he was the child of the second mortal Quendë that managed to birth a child of Mairon. All the others had been stillborns or miscarriages. When he was a mere child, he liked to think that perhaps one of the handmaids was secretly his true mother and she was hiding close, just out of his reach—but she was there. Nonetheless, as he grew older and listened upon the words of Lord Hestáren, all the reveries he had dreamed of as a child dwindled away. Mairon always told him he learned quickly, yet now as Atharys looked back upon the years he thought otherwise. Perhaps Mairon only thought so because of the utter obedience he had received after he whipped the boy that had done some unrecorded misdemeanor. Certainly he must have been deaf to the boy's lonely solitude and silent pain throbbing in his sleepless nights.

Now it was a few hours after midnight and Mairon was still working at the forges in Orodruin. It seemed now that he did not sleep, for all the work he was putting himself into. He had not yet told Atharys what he was crafting within its fires, but Atharys could guess well enough; perhaps with this device he would be able to thoroughly revive his sister's fëa into a more perceptible hröa. Atharys at least hoped for that, although he still felt odd calling this dead elleth Mairon had brought back one day his sister.

Atharys went now to the temple in the heart of the bone forest, yet he did not know he was going there and let his feet carry him far and wandering. He sensed the ravens watching, perched atop the white-leeched branches, and called for them. They came like the swirl of ashes in a dust storm, a cloud in themselves. He watched the swirl for a moment, then at his command the cloud dissipated into a thousand leaves of beating wings into the air. When he looked up again, he realized that he was before the temple where his dead sister lay before the tree. One of the ravens was perched atop the crumbling stone roof, cocking its head and staring at him. Atharys glanced at it, and the raven cawed. Everything seemed to be sullenly still now without the beating of the ravens' wings, and there was not even a breezing wind to stir the air.

When Atharys entered, he found that Mairon had put some sort of an enchantment to preserve the body; it looked the same as it had the first day he had brought her back to Morinórë. He was glad that someone had closed her eyes, for they unnerved him to be open and unseeing. Sometimes he had thought that she in fact could see him even if she was dead. . .perhaps her fëa was drifting near, sensing his presence. He wondered who she had been even though Mairon had told him much of her story. _Híthriel,_ he said her name was, but had renamed her as _Hrysívë_ , child of winter. Whoever she had been before was gone now—dead and gone, like all the others.

"Hrysívë," he whispered. He wanted to hear the sound of the name aloud.

With a sudden jolt, he thought she shifted in expiry, and he jerked backwards, tearing part of his right arm on the bone tree. He withdrew backwards, shakily, feeling blood trickling down his arm. Subtly he felt a drop of scarlet slither down his hand and linger upon his fingertips, then blooming like a flower, dripped to the ground. It sounded almost like rain, but tainted with sort of an unnameable curse.

Atharys suddenly found it necessary to ask for forgiveness to the lifeless elleth before him, and hastily dipping his head in apology, he spoke in the Quenya tongue.

"Nanyë nyérinqua. . ." The words could be translated to _I'm sorry,_ but they meant literally _I am sorrowful,_ a feeling of deep regret that Atharys did not yet know how to express. He did not know precisely why he was apologizing to her, but there was some intuition within him that spoke and insisted on being heard.

He repeated the words again and opened his mouth to say more, yet he did not know what would be right to say.

"I'm wondering if you can hear me, in Mandos," Atharys murmured at last. He paused then, considering. "I'm wondering if this—if this is what you wanted." He tilted his chin up to the moonlit sky and closed his eyes, breathing in the night air. When he opened his eyes again, there was dolor in them indescribable to him; it was a certain sentiment that he had not realized was in him before although he had always been a lonely child.

"Nanyë nyérinqua," he said again, turning away. "Nanyë nyérinqua."


	29. Chapter XXVIII

CHAPTER XXVIII

* * *

— _The Númenórean Lieutenant—_

They arrived at the port of Lond Daer a few hours past midnight, but Rhystórë remained on the ship until morning so as to not disturb his father and his massive, silent fortress. Belyswë had adhered to Rhystórë's restraining desires although he complained of the mustiness of his chamber belowdecks. Thus his father's fortress upon Lond Daer was undisturbed until morning when guards from the gates came to inspect the ship. The men above decks did not see the guards approaching for the fogginess of the grey morning; only when they drew night with low-burning lanterns bobbing in the mist did the ship's crew see and go to notify Belyswë.

Indeed they did tell Belyswë first, and thought nothing of telling Rhystórë, but the latter was expecting it. His handmaids were his discreet informers, and as Nythiel was helping him don his garb to see his father, one of them came to him reporting this, thus confirming his suspicions. He waved the girl away and turned to his looking-glass.

"So it is true, is it not, dear Nythiel?" Rhystórë mused. "They don't give a shit about me. How suspicious."

"Perhaps so, khôr ninya," Nythiel said, balancing on her toes to straighten his cloak.

"The fortress is a maze in itself. Try not to lose my things in it, or yourself, for a fact." He smiled down at the girl. "Quite exciting for you as your first time out of the north, isn't it?"

"Yes, khôr ninya." Nythiel was attempting to hide a bashful smile, but Rhystórë saw it nonetheless.

"This is hardly even south," he went on, "we could go to Belfalas sometime, perhaps. It would be a long passage though, for you. Belfalas is south of Lond Daer and the Enedwaith, but what is beyond there, we do not know. I remember Father sent explorers there once, but none ever returned, save one. He told that it was a desert down there, a treacherous hell, before he died." Rhystórë smiled pleasantly at Nythiel. "What say we go south one of these days, when all of this business is over?"

"If you wish so, khôr ninya," the girl said, though slightly shaken by his descriptions.

"For that I am glad." Rhystórë planted his foot on a chair, the wood groaning in protest, and stuck a dagger in his boot.

Nythiel was baffled by that. "Khôr ninya," she began, reluctantly.

Rhystórë motioned for her to go on.

"Why must you do that?" she asked.

"What? The dagger?"

Nythiel nodded.

The lieutenant grinned. "Can't ever be too careful." He took his flaunting leg off the chair, which groaned again, and strode to the door.

"Pleasant morning," he said to the girl, and departed the chamber, his cloak swishing behind him. He could scarcely admit it, but he did the cloak as such on purpose to intimidate people, particularly his brother, because that specific person seemed to be daunted by nothing.

The lieutenant reached Belyswë as the latter was squinting into the mist, trying to catch sight of the fortress of Lond Daer; either that or pretending to do so after bidding farewell to spies in the garb of guards.

"Good morrow," Rhystórë greeted him. "How did you sleep last night?"

"Ah—hello brother. Good morrow." Belyswë was likely pretending to be surprised to see him, and put on a good show of a scowl as he considered Rhystórë's inquisition. "I couldn't seem to sleep very well last night. . .I kept thinking of Father and how we could preserve his good health to the very end."

Rhystórë gave a sly smile and played along with the game. "Perhaps we should have brought a Quendian healer from Lindon to take good care of him."

"Yes, yes," Belyswë mused. "That would have been a spectacular idea, truly. A pity we did not think of it before."

"Certainly, a pity." The deck was silent save the men that were lowering the drawbridge.

"Come, brother," Belyswë said, sweeping to the bridge. "Let us go meet our dear father."

They headed across the port, gradually coming to life in the wake of early morning—men were moving wooden boxes about, hardly seen in the haze, and fishermen were selling their catch, calling out to no one. Lond Daer thrived with the shipbuilding industry; the forests around the city were hewn down and made into lumber so that the lands surrounding were as grey as the fortress that his father dwelt in.

His name was Daethad, or Lord Daethad he preferred. A man in his late forties, he was often sickly, something not generally known for a Númenórean of that age unless they were born so. Already his brown hair had been leeched to white, his face was creased with the burden of many drawn out years and troubles, and his pale blue eyes were almost always watery as if he wanted to weep in regret of all the treacherous deeds he had done.

Belyswë and Rhystórë reached the hall's entrance, guarded by a pair of guards standing in stony silence with spears in their hands. They recognized Belyswë, but of course would never remember Rhystórë, and made no notion of stopping the former as he pushed open the heavy creaking doors with both hands.

Lord Daethad was sitting on his chair they called a throne, more frail than Rhystórë had ever seen him, although everything else seemed same to some extent. He seemed to be asleep there; his eyes were closed—or nearly closed, Rhystórë didn't know—and he slumped in his seat.

"Hail Lord Daethad, First of His Name, Lord of Lond Daer," Belyswë said, bowing before his father. Rhystórë did the same, bowing lower to make sure of his father's favor.

Lord Daethad glanced up, his dimming eyes looking to Belyswë. Slowly, he turned to Rhystórë and as he registered who it was, he straightened and squinted, leaning so far out of his chair that he nearly fell off the dais.

"Rhystórë," Lord Daethad said in surprise.

The lieutenant kept his head bowed so he could not see his father's face nor Belyswë's. "Hello, Father."

Lord Daethad stepped off his throne and lifted Rhystórë out of his kneel. "You've come."

Rhystórë didn't know what words would be right. "Yes."

Belyswë had risen when Rhystórë did, and now he stepped forward to his father, drawing the attention to himself. "Father. Lord Daethad."

The old man looked up. "Belyswë. What matters are at hand?"

"I must speak with you in private, Father," Belyswë said. "There are more dire matters at hand than you may know, and the time is pressing."

Lord Daethad looked as though he wanted to object, but he rose and nodded to Rhystórë. "We will speak on the morrow."

Rhystórë turned to Belyswë dubiously. "Why must I leave?"

Belyswë leaned in to Rhystórë and turned him away from their father, whispering in his ear. "You would do as I say, or the plans may go awry."

The lieutenant pursed his lips, then inclined his head reverently, yet not all too stiffly. "Certainly, my lord. I will see you on the morrow." Rhystórë turned and bowed again to Lord Daethad, but spoke no more words.

"Your handmaid is waiting at the door to take you to your chambers," Belyswë called as he departed.

Rhystórë did indeed find Nythiel before the hall's entry by the guards, still unmoving as statues although one of them seemed to be stealing sideways glances at her; but he paid no heed to that as he stalked off into the corridor angrily, not bothering to wait for the girl. Nythiel hurried quickly by him, leading him along in the labyrinth of a fortress. It seemed as if there was always another dark, yawning passageway before him every time he turned a corner, as if it would never end. Still he spoke no word, however, and let the girl lead the way.

At last they reached his chambers at the lower levels of the fortress, which disappointed him. His father had seemed to be somewhat fond of him, and he almost pitied him for what terrible schemes Belyswë had planned out for him; but did he really not have the heart to gift him with quarters that were more suiting for a lord's son? When he had first arrived here, this had been exactly what he had expected, yet when he saw his father and the tenderness that was brimming beneath his eyes, his standpoint upon the situation had changed. Perhaps the chambers were not of Lord Daethad's choosing, yet still. . .

The lieutenant waited until the door was firmly latched and there was no discernable plant of Belyswë's lurking around the corridors that he whirled to Nythiel and shook her by the shoulders.

"Did you know of this?" he demanded. "Did you?"

The girl's eyes were wide with fear. "K-k-know what, khôr ninya?"

"When did my dear brother tell you to come running to me as we were in the hall? Before or after we arrived here?"

"A guard of his told me to come—to come and get you," Nythiel stammered. "Just a few—a few moments ago—"

His nails dug into her shoulders. "Are you sure of it? Do you dare _lie_ to me?"

Her eyes dilated in terror. "N-no, khôr ninya, I would never—please, khôr ninya, I never, I would not—"

Rhystórë let the girl slump to the ground, clutching her arms and weeping. He strode around the chamber, going to no destination in particular, and finally planted himself by the window. Outside the fog had not yet lifted, and if anything, had grown thicker as if a grey blanket had been mantled upon the city. He could not see the his ship—Belyswë's ship—in the pier nor the men moving around it monotonously like bourne weeping carelessly into the past. Restlessly, he turned from the window and paced around the chamber again. _What am I doing?_ The words echoed ceaselessly in his mind, and he could not bat them away no matter how hard he tried. At last he halted and drew in a breath. _I must compose myself. I must be the lieutenant I was sent to be._

The lieutenant turned to his handmaid and helped the girl rise to her feet. "I am sorry," he murmured. "I should have controlled my temper better."

Nythiel stared up at him with wide eyes and opened her mouth to speak, muttering something incomprehensible save a mumbled, ". . .khôr ninya."

Rhystórë smiled at her though his eyes were someplace else, wandering in the caves of doubt and retribution. "Let us hope on the morrow things will be better." He stepped backwards from her, away from the fogged window. "Summon the other ones. I shall be wanting a warm bath."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

It had been a year since the wedding of the King of Eryn Galen and the Princess of the Tawarwaith. She was a queen now, though, yet to many she still seemed a naïve, green girl. That was what she seemed to her mother, who likely envied her for being now the 'true' queen because of her marriage to the king. Nonetheless, Aelíndë was truly still a green girl in her years of spring, and she did not perceive her mother's gluttony; what she did perceive was her husband's distance. He seemed always lost in some other memory, and when he looked in her eyes, he could not hold her gaze very long and would break away.

Narbeleth saw all of this as she observed these people who played a game over supper as if it was a battle of life and death. She remembered when Oropher had tried to see Hînaeryn once after the wedding, but the latter had to be fierce and shove him away. " _What would your lady wife think of you if she knew you were sending money to some poor wench in the street?" Hînaeryn had demanded. "No. Where is your honor, Oropher? Your dignity? Keep it well. Do not waste it on me."_

They had not seen each other since then. Narbeleth missed Oropher very much, and she knew Hînaeryn did too. He had been like a father to her, almost, so that she and Taeloth had been like sisters. A few months ago she had wondered where Taeloth was then; she had gone with the host to Hithaeglir nearly two years ago and not returned with the rest to Lindon, but she wondered no more. The night she found out of her death had been misty and cold. It was an unfortunate incident for her to hear, really—she had not intended at all to overhear the conversation. When she heard, she knew immediately that Oropher and Hînaeryn had known all along and had been hiding the truth from her; she was saddened by the news and slightly angry at them for not telling her. But that was over now, nevertheless, and there was nothing to be done.

Also a few months ago, the weaving shop had gone out of business and Hînaeryn had been forced to marry another man for Narbeleth. Hînaeryn had said not once that last part aloud, but Narbeleth had observed and she knew that she would have never done that if it were not for her; she knew Hînaeryn saw her still as a child needed to be taken care of. And most of all, Hînaeryn did not rue her for it, which made Narbeleth all the more saddened and remorseful. _They were going to be married. . ._

Narbeleth had been walking home, and now she turned a corner and headed further down the street. They lived in a much better place now, although the light shining through the windows seemed ironic every time Narbeleth glanced at it. She walked upon the stones leading to the house, the gleam of the sunset making it seem as if the front of it was glowing like gemstones.

"Hello, Narbeleth," Hînaeryn's husband greeted her. His name was Ningloren, and he was a kindly ellon, but he was not Oropher.

"Uncle Ningloren," Narbeleth said, a smile upon her mouth. "How has your day been?"

"All right," he replied. "And you?"

So she told him about her day, and all the time she was telling herself, inside— _it's going to be all right. It could never have been, admit it, you fool._

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Khôr ninya._ My lord/master.  


* * *

 _A/n: Sorry for the slow update. They might be a little slower for the next two weeks, as my finals are coming up :(_


	30. Chapter XXIX

CHAPTER XXIX

* * *

— _Atharys—_

The gleaming fires of the forge in Orodruin could be seen even from the very summit of the tower of Lúmë-mindon fifteen hundred meters in the air. There Atharys stood, his hands behind his back, gazing down over the terrain and watching the red glow in the distance as if the light was a fierce battle within itself that he could not lose.

Lord Hestáryn had come up the long staircase to the dais and now emerged from its shadows, approaching Atharys with a sly, haughty gait. Atharys knew he was there yet did not turn as Hestáryn halted behind him, the latter crossing his arms before his chest.

"Yes?" Atharys inquired, his voice soft yet demanding authority.

"Forgive me for disturbing your musings, my lord," Hestáryn drawled, his tone mocking. "But Lord Undanya has come with a report on some. . .strife in Eregion."

Atharys remained in his stance at the edge of the dais. "Go on."

"These news would be more fitting to be heard by your lord father." Hestáryn stepped forward. "Unless you happen to—"

"I am afraid he is busy now," Atharys said. "If there is anything you would tell him, it would be fit to say to me."

A bogusly saccharine smile curved onto Hestáryn's lips. "Why, of course that may be so, but perhaps not to many."

"Careful what you do with your tongue, Lord Hestáryn," Atharys said softly, the words as dangerous as a honed dagger.

"Or what? You'll sever it off like Undanya?" He smirked, oblivious to his peril. "No, I'm afraid not. You would not dare."

"Please go on with the report, Lord Hestáryn." Atharys had still not moved. "It would greatly displease Lord Mairon to keep him waiting."

"Then I suppose you should—"

"That was an order, Lord Hestáryn."

Hestáryn pursed his lips. "That is all, my lord. There is strife in Eregion, between the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and the court."

"Who leads it?"

"Not the Fëanorian."

Atharys considered that. "Anything else?"

"Evidently not, my lord." The words were clipped.

Looking to the west, Atharys noticed that the remote red light of the forges had dwindled somewhat. "I will go to inform him."

"That would be immensely pleasing to me."

Atharys turned back to Hestáryn as he let the wings unfurl from his back, two vast shadows in the mist; the sight of them was so intimidating that even Hestáryn had to take a step back. It was the first time in their brief dialogue that he had moved so much, anyhow. "Would it be?"

Hestáryn tried his best to act undaunted. "It would, my lord."

"Spectacular," Atharys said, and stepped off the tower.

When he was younger, he used to savor the hours he would spend soaring in the sky for how free he felt, like a bird; sometimes when he wanted to escape his duties, he would go south and just fly without adornment. There he would let his mind wander to nowhere, following the aimless glides that his wings took in the air, and forget his anger, his fear. Yet later on he came to learn that freedom was a lie—it was an illusion that could never be true. Now he only flew for duty.

Atharys landed at the entrance of the forge, and already could he feel the intense heat coming from within. The forge was a labyrinth in itself; there were forges within the forge and many devices strewn about in a disarray, which was unlike Mairon. Atharys wasn't sure whether or not to be concerned about that. He headed down the walkway, stepping over scattered things and not bothering to shift out of his winged form.

The heat seemed to grow more pounding and magnified as he walked, however, and he soon found his brow drenched with sweat and his gait laboured. There was a great fire at the end of the walkway, and something on the ground—some _one_ lying on the ground. . .

Atharys hastened forward now to Mairon, who was sprawled upon the ground on his side, unconscious. His hair was disheveled, his garb and body stained with soot, and he was clutching something in his hand, Atharys saw, as he bent over his father. Mairon did not wake. Atharys put a hand on his face and reached out to his fëa's ósanwë to rouse him; yet the moment he brushed against his consciousness, Mairon's eyes snapped open and he sprang to his feet, shoving Atharys to the ground and suddenly his hands were wound around Atharys's throat, pressing, squeezing—

Then the pressure was gone, and Atharys was left coughing on the ground, clutching his throbbing throat. He found that his sight was blurred as he spit blood upon a fallen dirk; he had bitten his tongue in the struggle.

"What the _fuck?"_ Atharys demanded between wheezing coughs. "Certainly not the first time you tried to murder a child of yours—" He broke off into a fit of coughs. When he looked up again, he realized that Mairon had scarcely acknowledged his presence and the fact that he had nearly killed him, but was staring at something in his hand with the sort of awe that only comes a few instances in a lifetime. Atharys struggled to his feet and stumbled over to see what it was when he realized something else—Mairon's hands had never been around his neck.

As Atharys approached, Mairon looked suddenly up at him as if he had not known he was there. His eyes were amber today, and they seemed to be wandering in a dimension of its own even as they met Atharys's.

Atharys peered at what was in Mairon's hand, finding himself curiously unable to bring his gaze away from it. It was a ring of pure gold, a perfect circle that fit flawlessly upon his finger and bore no gem. Words in Tengwar written in his careful script ran along the inside and outside of the ring, glowing like they were fire themselves.

"You wrote it in Black Speech," Atharys noted.

 _Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

 _ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

Mairon looked slowly at him. "Yes." He seemed suddenly very interested in Atharys's face and stepped forward. "Hold still."

Atharys drew back instinctively. "What are you doing?"

"It's all right," Mairon whispered, as if in a trance. "Just hold still." He flicked his wrist and suddenly there was another ring in his hand, bronze and jeweled, and that he slipped onto Atharys's finger.

For a moment nothing happened, then he felt as if Mairon was ripping his consciousness apart, clawing into his fëa and stripping him stark naked. His fears, his desires, his unvarnished truths all came spilling out then torn to rugged pieces as if they were nothing important, the ashes of them left for the howling wolves in the night. Mairon rummaged through his memories, looked at them, tossed the unimportant ones aside. He was screaming, begging for it to stop— _get it away from me, no—_ stop. . .

Then Mairon stepped back once again and stared in renewed wonder at the golden ring upon his finger. It was then Atharys realized that Mairon had only needed to will things to happen and they would happen; that had been the case a few minutes ago when Atharys had nearly been choked to death. He was suddenly very afraid of his father and the utmost power that he now possessed. Ever since he was a child, he had been afraid of him but this was something different, something more closely mirrored by _terror_.

 _Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

 _ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

"There is strife in Eregion. . ." Mairon murmured; he had known from breaking into Atharys's ósanwë. That was one of the many treacherous deeds that the Ring could bestow upon him: it could see and control his thoughts.

". . .strife in Eregion. . ." Mairon said again. He took a step forward and stumbled; he was drained of energy from the making of this terrible thing. Bracing a hand on a worktable, he pocketed the bronze ring and limped to the doorway, frightening even in his weakened state. His wings unfurled from his back, more massive than Atharys's; they were colored mostly black, but at the edges they were singed with amber so as to look like they had been scorched by a great scarring fire. Mairon half-dragged them over to the doorway then spread them wide apart as he prepared.

 _Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

 _ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

Mairon whispered some silent secret, his lips scarcely seeming to move, and mounted into the air, like a ring of fire in the shadowed night. Atharys watched his departure until he was a mere speck of an ember in the darkness then let his head slump to the ground in defeat.

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

Tyelpe awoke substantially early the following morning due to an incessant knocking at his door.

"What is it?" he called, quickly donning his garb. He ran his fingers hastily through his hair, sweeping out of his face, then went to answer the door.

It was Narvi, scarcely looking somnolent even at this odd hour. He was wearing his helm for some reason and was fingering his beard with an apprehensive look upon his face.

"What took you so long?" Narvi demanded at once.

"Ah, well, you see, it is four hours past midnight and—"

"No matter. Tyelpe, you must come quickly. The Gwaith are stirring amongst each other, quarrelling over the lordship of Eregion. Nothing too extreme has happened yet, but you must stop this immediately."

"Quarrelling over the lordship of Eregion?" Tyelpe repeated, still processing all that had just been said.

"The conversation started last night, apparently," Narvi said. "People were just having dinner and someone _had_ to bring up politics—"

"All right, all right, I'm coming." Tyelpe glanced behind to his chambers. "Give me a few moments." He made to go back inside then turned back to Narvi slowly. "Is Annatar there?"

"No one has seen him all night."

Tyelpe nodded slowly.

"You seem to be asking if Annatar has anything to do with this." Narvi had his arms crossed and was looking defiantly up at Tyelpe because he knew that he had not asked. "In my judgement, yes, he does. I do not trust that man."

Tyelpe said nothing and wavered for a moment, as if he wanted to speak, then in resignation, retreated into his chambers. He smoothed down his garb, wrenched the tangles out of his hair and stamped his feet into his boots. For a moment, he caught sight of his reflection in the looking glass and bit his lip thinking about how much he looked like his father. When he emerged again, Narvi was sitting on his kitchen's wooden countertop, his legs dangling over the edges fretfully, but he sprang off as Tyelpe came and went to the door.

"It's about time," the Khuzd muttered.

Tyelpe followed Narvi as the latter walked hastily down the corridor although his hasty walk was the former's normal stride. "How did it begin?"

"I do not know myself," Narvi confessed indignantly. "Yet it is not merely between two people—it seems nearly the entire Gwaith is involved."

"What you said about Annatar," Tyelpe began, then paused.

Narvi waited. "Yes?"

"What is your evidence?"

"From what he says to people, he has certainly come to Eregion for something more than to share his art," Narvi said. "That is what you told me yourself, but do you believe it? Something darker and more sinister is growing these days, Tyelpe. You cannot trust everything that people say. Annatar is clearly something else than what he seems. Have you ever asked him of his past?"

"He told me that he was from Himring, and that during the Year of Lamentation he was in Doriath." Tyelpe frowned. "Then he diverted the conversation to. . .he diverted it to Artanis."

Narvi gave a long, conspicuous nod. "You see?"

"But why would he want to do anything to Eregion? He has taught the Gwaith-i-Mírdain things that we have never seen before, things we have never even thought of. He has taught us to craft the Rings of Power and he even offered to teach me the arts of ósanwë."

"He has offered you too much."

They were approaching now, Tyelpe knew, from the roaring shouts and clamour coming from the common room, and it was obstreperous than he had foreseen.

Narvi gave him a pointed glance and gestured to his helm. "They would have knocked me out cold, the little thing I am."

"Don't say that."

They lingered at the doorway, observing the mess. What Narvi said had been true; it was not merely between two people—the entire Gwaith did, in fact, seem to be involved. Tyelpe stood there, unsure what to do with all of them when two of them suddenly launched at each other, lashing at each other's faces.

" _Halt!"_ Tyelpe bellowed, but no one seemed to hear and paid him no heed. He went forward, wading into the throng of Gwaith, yet the room was so dense he could scarcely get anywhere. The fighters, a Noldo and a Sinda, were hissing as they circled each other, covered with bruises, yet in the crowd, they all looked the same, whether or not they were Calaquendi or Moriquendi. _Really, in the end,_ Tyelpe thought, remembering the War of Wrath, _we were all the same._

Abruptly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whirled around to find Annatar beside him in the mob. He looked terrible, even more than last he had seen him, but there was a determined, lively gleam in his eyes.

"Do not worry, my lord," Annatar whispered into his ear. "I will take care of this."

 _Where have you been?_ Tyelpe wanted to shout, but he vanished into the mob before he could voice his thoughts. Then suddenly he saw Annatar standing upon a table as if it was a properly arranged dais, and he noticed a golden ring glinting upon his finger.

Annatar held up a hand. " _Silence!"_

The entire room fell silent and ceased to move.

The two that had been fighting stayed their fists, the shouting mob had halted their shoving and their clamour, and all stood attentively and stared up at him in wonder. Narvi, who had been at the doorway, peered in, his eyes widening at the sight of Annatar upon the table with that inexorable aura of authority. Tyelpe himself could not take his gaze off him, even as Annatar surveyed the crowd and met his eyes.

"All of you have come here today searching for something—I see it in your eyes."

Annatar made eye contact with certain individuals who turned away in shame. "I can see many things in your eyes: anger, fear, jealousy, sorrow, hatred, love. All of you have suffered so much. All of you have stories of your own that you conceal and keep to yourself. Why do you hide them away, so that they come bursting out of unwanted caverns of your heart in nights of rancour as such?

"I know how you feel. Though you may not know this, I do. I have seen many things in this world, and others. Each one of you is distinctive from each other, but in the end our wants and desires—are they not all the same? After all, we are as a collection of tales all gathered into one. You might feel so different from each other, but look around you. Look at the faces around you. What you will find is that we must unite as one against the true enemy.

"Let them fly out of you—let all of that terrible pain fly out of you. Let the visions escape from you like the aftermath of a battle washed away in a thunderstorm. We are all commoners here. The true battle is against the rulers of Eregion."

A suppressed murmur drifted through the room. Tyelpe clenched his jaw.

"They take and take and take, and what do we receive? Their mess to clean up. Lady Alatáriel has allied with the Númenóreans to investigate the situation in Hithaeglir. They have found nothing so far, only raided and killed a few Easterling tribes. When the Easterlings rise up and come against us, it will be the people—the commoners of Eregion and Lindon that will be forced to fight the war."

The mention of war drew another thrum through the gathered crowd. Annatar swept his gaze around the room again, his eyes fierce with emotion. Tyelpe looked down and shouldered his way out of the crowd, brushing past Narvi in the corridor and trying to block out the rest of Annatar's speech chasing after him.

Outside, a blanket of snow veiled the earth. It had been yesterday that had snowed, so now the pure white stuff was smeared with bits of dirt and grime. Tyelpe trudged through it nonetheless, staining his garb. He did not know where he was going until he had arrived there; he found himself before Artanis's chambers, bracing an arm against the wall.

Somehow, at this hour, she answered the door with no trace of slumber upon her. "Tyelpe," she said in surprise, though her expression was laced with contempt. "Why are you here at this time?"

Tyelpe looked down. "I—I don't know."

Artanis furrowed her brow. "I'm sorry?"

He raised his head slight. "I apologize, my lady. I do not know why I have come here. I think I will be going now. Good morning." He retreated hastily back down the corridor.

"Tyelpe!" she called after him. He heard her sigh then retire back to her chambers, clicking the door shut.

When he had been sure of this, he went slowly out of the corridor and wandered to a grey bench by the frozen river of Glanduin. It had begun to snow again, but lightly, so he watched the flakes drift to the ground and mingle with the dirt on the road.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Lúmë-mindon._ (Q) Barad-dur.

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit, plural _fëar._

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body, plural _hröar._

 _Ósanwë._ (Q) Interchange of thought.


	31. Chapter XXX

— _The Númenórean Lieutenant—_

His dreams that night were plagued with unnamable terrors. At first he did not know he had been dreaming and thought it to be real, even when he stared up at Belyswë's cold, dead eyes with his cold, dead hands wound around his neck. The vision was reminiscent of the time Rhystórë and Belyswë had fought against each other in a tourney match a few years ago in Númenor. Undoubtedly, Belyswë had won the match and had in fact prevailed amongst the whole tourney. Yet now in the dream, it was a battle of life and death and Rhystórë refused to yield. The hands were as unyielding and cold as solid ice and yet searing like a fire—a clashing juxtaposition of an overture.

Rhystórë woke, his skin cold and clammy and his brow matted with sweat. He was breathing heavily as he threw off his sheets, realizing Nythiel was standing before his bedside.

"What is it?" He spoke sharply as rebuke of his own humiliation.

"Khôr ninya, the door—"

In fact, Rhystórë had just noticed, there was an insistent knocking at his door.

"Who is it at this hour?" he demanded of the girl. "Tell them to wait as I dress." He did not stop to see if she had went before throwing on something more fitting to be seen in. It was scarcely moments before a tall man showed himself into the chamber, escorted by half a dozen guards. _I told you to wait,_ Rhystórë wanted to growl, but he folded his hands behind his back and smiled pleasantly at the man. He opened his mouth to speak but the man cut him off.

"Lieutenant Rhystórë."

"That is me." Rhystórë was trying to conceal his bewilderedness. "And you may be. . ."

"Your father's general," the man said.

"I am sorry I was so unprepared for this," Rhystórë went on. "I was not expecting you—"

The general had a tired look on his face as he wholly ignored him and swept out the chamber. "Come, lieutenant."

"I'm sorry?"

But the general had already gone out of the room, and the guards were filing out behind him. Rhystórë had no choice but to follow. He jerked his chin to Nythiel to come, and she crept, frightened and reluctant, behind them.

"May I have the pleasure of knowing where we may be heading to?" Rhystórë inquired as he hastened after the general.

"Perhaps. . ." The general paused and turned to him. In the rear the guards halted as one.

". . .when we arrive." He resumed his long strides down the dark corridor.

Rhystórë pursed his lips and followed.

It seemed forever that they wound their way down the shadowed corridors and never-ending staircase, yet at last the general halted before a large brass door. The guards went forward and after unbolting it, hauled the door open.

"These are the dungeons," Rhystórë realized aloud.

Neither the general nor the guards answered. When the guards had heaved the door into place again, the general led him down yet another staircase cloaked in darkness, the only source of light the lantern he held before him. As they arrived at the bottom, the general passed the lantern to one of the guards behind him and went before a cell containing a foul smell.

"Why have you brought me here?" Rhystórë demanded.

"Do you recognize this cell, lieutenant?" the general said.

Rhystórë was taken aback by the inquiry and took a step inside to examine it closer. "No, general."

The general glanced at the guards then back at the lieutenant. "Then you may want to have to pleasure of accommodating yourself to it."

Before the general had even finished his sentence, he had driven a knee into Rhystórë's ribs, shoving him backwards into the cell. The guards drew their swords with a perilous ring; Rhystórë had reacted quickly and launched himself back at the general before the latter could slam the door upon him. The lieutenant had no weapon, so throwing himself at one of the guards, smote his head upon the temple and grasped a dirk from his belt.

Nonetheless Rhystórë was one whilst the general and his guards seven. As a substantially skilled fighter, he took down the first three guards in a matter of seconds, yet the general was better—there was a predatory glow within the general's eyes like a feline hunting her prey. After Rhystórë had disarmed the other three, the general lifted a commanding hand to the guards and shouted.

"Halt!"

Immediately the guards froze at the authority in his voice. Rhystórë turned around slowly and smiled at the general, who lifted his chin in a challenge.

"Looking for a fair fight, general?" Rhystórë said, stepping forward.

"Perhaps." The general twirled the dirk in his hand, nearly identical to Rhystórë's. "I think that is what you are looking for."

Then suddenly he felt a sharp jab in the back of his thigh and the general rushed forward, slamming a foot into his side and slashing the dirk across his abdomen. Blood came spraying out of the wound and Rhystórë gasped as the pain came rushing to him.

The next thing he knew, he was behind bars and blood—his blood—was drenching the cold floor. The general was standing out, staring in with a stony expression. Rhystórë spat blood on the ground and hissed at him, who remained indifferent.

"Who the fuck gave this order—" Rhystórë glared at the guard who had stabbed him in the leg.

"You should learn that gallant men do not answer to the vile lies of a bastard," the general said, and left him there to bleed out alone in the gloom.

* * *

— _Artanis—_

The mob had been at the gates for hours now. Artanis stood, watching them through the window, watching the guards struggling to keep them in line, watching them punch their fists into the air in defiance. Her husband was out there trying to pacify them and justify himself, yet clearly it seemed not to be doing any good.

Artanis turned to her daughter sleeping fitfully in her cot, still a child, still a babe, helpless and vulnerable. She was never very much of a crier, for which Artanis was very proud, and oftentimes sat watching her and others with large, curious eyes. It was for her that Artanis feared for now; no—a child did not deserve to live through times of strife and war, it should not happen, it should not be a thing in this world. Yet it still did—she remembered Elerondo and Gil-galad, who had been born into a world torn apart—and she was determined to not have Celebrían suffer the same fate. For a while more she watched her daughter fondly as she slept though her unspeakable fears plagued her within.

Then suddenly there was a cry outside and she whipped her head around to look. The guards still had their long sticks out, trying to push the shouting mob back, but this time her husband was on the ground, the side of his face bleeding from a rock thrown from the crowd.

It was not serious in any way, but Artanis knew what it meant. She stood up so quickly that her chair fell to the ground, and made to go to the door but glanced back at her daughter, halting at her chamber door and staring at her for a moment too long.

"Aurinya," she called. Aurinya was one of her handmaidens, a tall pretty girl with the silver hair of the Sindar. She came emerging into the chamber swiftly, as if she had been expecting the summon.

"Guard her with your life," Artanis told the girl, and strode out of the door.

Yet in the corridor Artanis stopped suddenly in her steps and glanced backwards, considering. She knew she had no time for delay; the decision had to be made now. Thus turning upon her heel, she marched back to the chamber though she was still reluctant inside.

"I have changed my mind," Artanis said, concealing her fear and doubt with expert skill. "Go down to the stables and ready a horse. Await me at the gates."

Aurinya's eyes widened. "My lady, you cannot—"

"Go. I command it." _I must do what is best for my child._ She did not wait to see if Aurinya had done as she had bid before departing the chamber once more.

The situation outside was worse than she had hoped. The shouting was overwhelming, like the heart-jolting thunder of a fierce tempest in a despairing night. She wondered if this was what the mob in Mithlond had been like—the mob that had driven Hith out of Lindon. There had been no tidings of Hith, nonetheless; no tidings of her whereabouts nor if she had ever arrived in Eryn Galen or not. It had been a year and a half now since she had left Ost-in-Edhil. Artanis guessed she was most likely dead somewhere in Hithaeglir, forsaken and left to the wolves. She herself would take the same path soon, and perhaps meet a similar fate.

She shouldered her way forward to the foremost part of the crowd. They silenced almost immediately at her coming, which unnerved her all the more. They wanted to hear what she had to say, what lies she would feed to them to save herself and her daughter. She lifted her chin nevertheless to show she was unafraid, undaunted—after all, that was what all mothers had to do before their children.

 _I am not afraid._ "Look around you," she cried. "What do you see?" In the mob she discerned Tyelpe standing sullen and silent. He did not appear to have any role in contributing to this, it seemed, though she wondered why he had come to her this morning in such distress. Perhaps he had known and had decided it was best to not tell her, decided it was best to conceal the truth from her. Did he still think her a weak child? She bit her lip so fiercely that it drew blood.

"What I see," she began, "is a horde of broken, frightened people, yet somehow unbowed. You are afraid of each other. And you pretend to be unbowed so as to prove you are unafraid, but all you manage to do is lie to each other—lie to yourself."

An angry murmur spread through the crowd.

"Liar!" some yelled. Others shouted, "Deceiver!" She wanted to laugh at their titles for her. How these untruths of her had extended through the people of Eregion, she did not know, but she had a fine guess. That had her thinking of Morgoth in Valinor, when he had just been released from his long imprisonment, for he had come to her people and turned them against each other. Fëanáro had been set against his half-brothers and all of them against the Valar. No, it was not so easy to forget dark, twisted secrets buried within the tangles of your grieved heart. It was because of this—because of these untruths—that nearly the entirety of her family had been broken and killed. She thought of Nelyo her cousin, who had been a _good person_ before he had fallen into darkness. She thought of Findaráto her brother, murdered because he had been faithful and loyal and the world had been too merciless for someone like him.

"I will not have another kinslaying," she whispered amid the clamour. Suddenly her passion grew intense and her voice heightened to a scream. " _I will not have another kinslaying."_

Silence. Artanis stood before them, breathless, her eyes wild, a tear falling from her eye.

"Not again."

She wiped it away, turned to her husband and met his eyes, then to the people. "As it pleases you, I am leaving."

A hushed rustle travelled amongst them like the ripple of water when a pebble is dropped.

"I am leaving Eregion," she said. "Do what you will." And when she turned upon her heel and went away, Celeborn did not come with her.

* * *

— _Atharys—_

Atharys held aloft a burning torch in his hand against the night. In the flickering light, the white bone-tree seemed to come alive, a spectre haunting and ghastly, as it loomed over the hröa of Hrysívë, the child of winter. Oil was poured all over the marble floor in an encircling design around her, the torches reflected within them. While Atharys stood to the side, Mairon stepped forward, walking straight into the oil and murmuring an incantation in Valarin. The latter had his eyes closed as he drew the design with his feet, performing the task so smoothly that it seemed he was dancing upon water.

At last he halted before her, and the incantation ceased. Atharys knew this was his cue; he bent down and laid the torch in the oil. It happened slowly at first—it took a few moments for the fire to touch the oil, but then it spread like like a wind rippling over a meadow, and Mairon began his incantation once again, the music of it seeming to rise and fall as waves of an ocean tempest.

Atharys stepped back from the flames that were now leaping and eating up all they could. Mairon was still in the center of it all, but now, at Atharys' admonition, began to retreat to the mouth of the burning temple. He did not seem to care for the fact that he too would be scarred and burned if he did not get away fast enough, and raised his arms up to the dance of the flames. Atharys coughed and his eyes stung; the smoke was now suffocating. Shouting to his father, he tried to go and drag him away from his fervent prayer, yet the fire hindered him. He was forced to retreat to the first chamber.

When Mairon emerged at last into sight, he was caked with soot and his right arm was aflame. Atharys, in a desperate essay, ran forward and seized his left arm, dragging him out. Smoke had filled the air in a cloak of murky grey and confusion, and ashes were falling from the air as they collapsed onto the ground, the temple exploding behind them.

Mairon watched the sight with an unreadable expression, but if Atharys had to say that it was anything it might have been emptiness. The incantation had ended now, and now he stood bowed, struggling to keep upright, his chest heaving. And the fire had left an ugly wound trailing from his arm up to part of his neck—he knew it would scar.

They stood there for a long while until the fire had died and there was only billowing smoke left in the dusk. Then suddenly Mairon closed his eyes and slumped to the ground, unconscious; the incantation had exhausted too much of his strength.

Atharys scarcely glanced at him but continued to watch the smoke. When he deemed the time right, he collected himself and went forward to what remained of the temple, straight through the fumes. Knowing he must not succumb, he held his breath as he walked so as to not be smothered by the smoke.

He came at last to the chamber of the white bone-tree. It remained unburnt though covered with ash and soot, as was the hröa of Hrysívë beneath it. Her garb had been eaten away by the flames but her hröa remained unscathed, yet she did not seem any more alive than she had before; her hair had been burnt off and her eyes were closed and unmoving. Nonetheless, as he knelt down before her, Atharys thought her once serene countenance was suddenly laced with pain.

"Hrysívë," he said, and paused. "Híthriel."

There was no response. Atharys bit his lip and closed his eyes, then reached through ósanwë into her consciousness. Somewhere floating in there was the distant memory of her Quenya amilessë, which he embraced and took it upon himself to speak the name aloud. The sound of it was much more pure than the rest of them, as little silver bells tinkling in the morn.

Yet still she did not wake, and so he turned away. He was about to leave when he felt a ripple of something in the bonds of energy around them as a pebble dropped in a lake. He halted, then turned back. In sudden resolution, he murmured her amilessë thrice more, like a prayer. Each time he spoke it there seemed to be a shift in her ósanwë, and he could feel her fëa coming forth again—it was like a crescendo in a symphony leading up to some fascinating climax, the tremelo of all instruments alike coming together to break loose at one precise point.

And there was silence, then her eyes opened.

"Beautiful after broken," she whispered. "Like gemstones. That's what he told me."

* * *

Thus ends Part One: Solitude.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Khôr ninya._ My lord/master.

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body, plural _hröar._

 _Hrysívë._ (Q) Child of winter.

 _Ósanwë._ (Q) lit. Interchange of thought.

 _Amilessë._ (Q) Mother-name.

 _Fëa._ (Q) Soul, spirit, plural _fëar._

* * *

 _A/n: Also sorry for the long wait! My finals aren't over yet, but surely I can't study all day haha, so I'll just take a slight break..._

 _Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers!_


	32. Part Two: Oblivion

PART TWO: OBLIVION

* * *

 _A few years later_

During this time, most things stay the same as they had been where _Solitude_ had ended.

Hith/Hrysívë is in a coma after her awakening, Rhystórë is held captive in the dungeons of Lond Daer, Oropher is married to Aelíndë, Princess of the Tawarwaith, Hînaeryn married for financial reasons for Narbeleth, Taeloth/Norkáwen is a slave in Morinórë, Annatar (Mairon) and Tyelpe are crafting the Rings in Eregion, Artanis has departed to Lothlórien with Celebrían while Celebron remained in Ost-in-Edhil, and Khamûl, meanwhile, has arisen to become the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders.


	33. Chapter II-I

PART TWO: OBLIVION

* * *

CHAPTER I

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

 _before_

At first, I thought I might have found peace at last when I departed the dimension of the living. Sometimes I think otherwise, and other times I do not know. What I have found from my stay here is the power of observation—yet nothing can be without doubt. Time was inconceivable in this grey realm; I never knew how long I had walked, or what distance I had covered. Things merely happened, passed, fell apart, and you forgot them as if they had never existed. But yes, there were some things that were worth remembering, and those cruel things remained in yourself like a dagger piercing constantly in your heart. Sometimes I think shifting into this cold, grey realm makes you more prone to this, more prone to remembering some things that you cannot let go. Perhaps it is because of the ample time where you merely sit and think in the cold, perhaps it is not. Perhaps it is that you realized that you truly were dead now and you wondered what to do with yourself. I have to admit that I did do all of these things, but most of the time I wandered, far and wide.

There is no dimension of Mandos in Valinórë, or at least it was scarcely there, a thin layer of fog misting the grasslands. Thus I did not go there, but found myself many times at the brink of the Northern Wastes, so they were called now. The ocean was dark and yawning like ice-cold water in a deep cave lapping at bare feet, and it did not look like the place I had dwelt for so long—the place that I had once loved. In the distance I could see Himring's peak protruding out of the mirror-like surface of the water, and I wondered what would happen if I leaped into the water and swam there, to my old home, but I never tried.

They called it the Isle of Himring, and those other remnants of Beleriand Tol Fuin and Tol Morwen. It was haunting, like a graveyard. At times I thought I could feel the fëa of Túrin Turambar lingering upon Tol Morwen, tarrying there, mourning, conspiring, hating. Perhaps there would be a time when he rose again, but not today.

I was alone most of the time though I knew there were many others about me. The rest of it was hazy and scarcely worth remembering. Somewhere towards the beginning I found Nelyo, too at the brink of Forodwaith, gazing towards the past, seeking it.

We both knew of each other's presence, yet did not acknowledge it for some while. Then I turned to him and spoke, quietly.

"It's like a picture painted many years ago, all washed away now, isn't it?"

A wan, bloodless smile touched his lips. "Yes, it is."

I sighed and gazed at the rain that was falling through my diaphanous fëa, but spoke no words. That conveyed enough. And in his mind, I knew he was thinking, _It's all right. It's all right now. That time has past,_ though he could not forgive himself. I could not forgive him, either. What he had done was not forgivable, not in a thousand years.

Love is a peculiar thing—it is tangled, but it can be beautiful, jaunty, fake, wild, and lost too. It can be many things in disguise and not, and once it seizes hold, it may never let go.

As I looked upon the dark ocean, I realized why it was so menacing. _Look away,_ it seemed to be whispering, _go away from here. The past is gone and lost. The time has come for you to move on...To be broken is a gift...It is a gift..._

* * *

Ever since then I had been turning over a phrase that Nelyo had told me once when the lantern had not been so tainted by shadow. Beautiful after broken. Like gemstones. It was the time during the Watchful Peace when we had first gotten together and had happiness for seventeen years before the fires of Bragollach came and swallowed them away. (Though it could never have been, I liked to think of it like that.) He had said not to dread my fears nor my scars, but cherish and embrace them. Not to simply accept them, but to embrace them wholeheartedly like an old friend.

It was this I had been thinking of when my father had stolen me out of Mandos and turned me into something I had not intended to be, though it was what I expected him to do. It was like the same hröa I had dwelt in before, yet somehow he had created a new one with a new power he was said to have discovered. He did not take away the ungolócë, however, and instead built a hröa out of it.

"It was your weakness before. Now it is your strength," he had whispered in my ear.

The poison still consumed me, but it would not kill me. And this he called a gift.

I awoke now in my chambers in Morinórë. Atharys, who seemed to have been expecting it, leaned over and felt my brow. It had been a few days after my three years in an enthralling coma, brought about by my theft from Mandos.

"The fever has lessened," he told me. "Would you like any tea, Hrysívë?"

I looked at my half-brother, silently questioning why he acceded to calling me by that name. "All right."

He poured it for me, but it was too hot for the moment so he set it on the drawer to cool. At my gesture, he helped me sit up in my bed; my hröa was new, unused, and I felt weak as an old man. I breathed out to relieve myself of the feeling of being so weak, though it scarcely helped. I must have looked quite tired, because he had a very concerned-looking expression on his face.

"How old are you, Atharys?" I asked.

He drew a deep breath. "Towards the end of the War of Wrath, they told me."

I nodded slowly and did not speak for a long time.

"And you?" Atharys glanced at me. "Mairon never told me anything much of you."

"The year fourteen ninety-nine of the Years of the Trees," I told him. "Seven years before the Battle of the Lammoth, if he ever taught you history."

"I learned," he said.

"What did he say of me?" I inquired, curious.

Atharys paused. "I don't quite recall..."

"A spectacular act," I said. "But I can taste a lie when I see one."

He flushed and looked down. "He spoke of your mother."

"My mother?" I was incredulous. "What of her?"

"He said he named you. He gave her the ataressë that you went by in Beleriand," Atharys said. "And he told me of how in the beginning you were a child of summer, but you inevitably came to be a child of winter. That is why he named you Hrysívë."

 _I don't remember when the world painted me so melancholy._ "Interesting."

"Then he spoke of how you never told him your Quenya amilessë."

I bit my lip. "He does not deserve to know. Yet you do. Why did you do that?"

Atharys opened his mouth and closed it. "I don't—I don't know."

I sighed wearily, slumping into my cushions. "I don't know either."

He seemed to be confused. "What don't you know?"

"I don't know anything, Atharys," I told him. "There. There is the bare truth. I know nothing."

"Perhaps you should get some more sleep—"

"I have been sleeping for three years. Dead for one and a half. It is time I work on walking." I held out my arms. "Help me stand."

Atharys seemed as if he wanted to object, but he complied nonetheless.

Standing was more difficult that I would have liked it to be; I bit my lip so fiercely it bled. The metallic taste of the blood sharpened my senses, however, and propelled me to go on. I remembered when I was younger, I might have thought of Nelyo and strove on, but the idea of it angered me now. I licked the blood from my lips and tasted it in my mouth, the bitterness of it. Yet now I was going to put the bitterness to use—I was going to make them bleed. _Sometimes I still think if I were as powerful as Artanis, I would throw down the walls of Angamanado and make them bleed; and if I were as strong as Melyanna, I would create a girdle so powerful it would crush Angamando to a thousand broken pieces. Yet I was neither—at least not thus far._

But now I was. And for one, Taeloth was still alive.

"Hrysívë?" Atharys asked. "Are you all right?"

I turned to him, out of a reverie. "Tell me, Atharys, what has our dear father been doing all these years?"

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

"Stand up straight and keep your head down," Eressë barked, slapping Norkáwen upside the head. Even when she raised her voice she was beautiful, Norkáwen thought as she cast her eyes to the ground. _More beautiful than I will ever be._

Eressë was arguably Morinórë's most distinguished courtesan, with her silver-blue eyes and her dark curtain of hair that swept around her like a scintillating mist when she moved. Her lips were scarlet and full and her cheekbones sharp. Always she had her chin lifted save the times she approached Lord Mairon, only taking the care to lower her eyes for her most respected client. She never looked too long at someone, however, but when Norkáwen did catch sight, she found that in her eyes there was a sort of defiance and fierceness as if she was masking something within. Her name, _Eressë_ , meant solitude, anyhow.

Norkáwen held the silver tray that bore a single glass of red wine, her head bowed as Eressë had reminded her, and waited for her cue to go forward. When it came at last, she walked down the corridor to the side door that the guards opened for her, and emerged into the throne room. It seemed smaller than she remembered, but that was likely because of the usually absent people that now occupied the chamber. She could not see the people, however, for she still had her eyes cast downward, so when she placed the glass of red wine before Lord Mairon, she dared a glance up to the guests.

She nearly dropped the tray.

"Is there anything wrong, Norkáwen, sweetling?" Lord Mairon inquired, his voice saccharine.

Norkáwen shook her head furiously in an attempt to convey her profound apology. "No, my lord." She found herself looking back up at the boy she once knew—no, he was a man half-grown now of sixteen or seventeen, by the looks of it. She did not know how long she had been here. While he aged into a man, she was still the same little, helpless girl, trapped in a hellhole.

Khamûl made no notion of seeing her. "Shall we precede, my lord?"

"Ah, yes," Mairon said, waving him closer. Norkáwen took the chance to back out of the room and back into the corridor. She found Eressë, the courtesan, almost immediately, nearly colliding into her.

"Be glad I was not Lord Angaino," Eressë said, turning away.

Norkáwen found her courage suddenly. "Lady Eressë."

She turned fiercely. "I am no lady," she snarled. "No queen, no wife. I am a _whore_. Now get out."

"I need to—I need to know..." Norkáwen faltered.

Eressë narrowed her eyes. "Speak."

"Why is—why are they in there?"

"The throne room?" Eressë said.

Norkáwen nodded.

"Perhaps it is because they are here to swear fealty to sweet Lord Mairon, Norkáwen. It is none of your concern. Now get out."

"Swear fealty?" she whispered.

Eressë slapped her, forcefully. "I told you it is none of your concern, Norkáwen—"

But Norkáwen was seized with a frightful delusion and she went staggering to the door. "No, no, he can't—"

She had meant the words on Khamûl but Eressë had interpreted it otherwise. "He _can._ Lord Mairon can do anything. He can whip you, he can flay you, he can rape you and no one will care because you're only a little slave girl that should have her mouth ripped open for this. Learn your place now, sweet Norkáwen, or learn it with blood and screams."

Norkáwen was shocked by Eressë's words, and her mouth hung agape with incredulity.

Eressë smiled, a bitter smile, but it was sweet too. "Come on now, Norkáwen. Let's go back to the little place you'll never call home."

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

The Gwaith-i-Mírdain held a feast in Ost-in-Edhil to celebrate the completion of the Rings. There were sixteen in total now, set upon sixteen pearl diases glinting in the candlelight, and every now and then someone would glance at them to ensure they were still there, to ensure someone had not stolen it from its sacred place. Seven of them were silver and the nine remaining bronze, but they seemed all equally ethereal.

Annatar was not present at the feast. He had not been present for many events in the city, claiming he was not feeling well. At time Tyelpe would go to his quarters to see how he was doing; sometimes he would be there, most times not. So as the others of the Gwaith spoke and laughed, Tyelpe waited and wandered if Annatar would ever arrive.

In sooth, Tyelpe had been oddly distant from the others lately—ever since Artanis had left her title as Lady of Eregion and the people had pushed him up to lord. Yes, so that was his renowned title now, Lord of Eregion. He had not contributed significantly in the Gwaith's revolt against the lordship of Eregion and yet he was forced to become what he did not intend to be; he was guilty though he had taken no part. They had kept Celebron behind in Ost-in-Edhil while Artanis fled to the lands beyond Hithaeglir, to ensure her good faith, as if they lived in a feuding society and could scarcely trust one another. _What has become of us?_ He remembered Artanis' words... _I will not have another kinslaying._ She had spoke the words with such conviction that Tyelpe was shocked by the intensity of them.

He was jerked suddenly away from his thoughts as Églanim leaned into his ear and whispered, "Milord, our lovely Lord of Gifts has finally arrived."

Tyelpe glanced up. There, indeed, was Annatar, smiling and shaking hands with people who had come up to congratulate him. He had done well to make himself presentable, reasonably better than Tyelpe had last seen him. Gentle waves of auburn hair tumbled down his back as he stood in the most proper, courtly manner possible. He carried himself daintily as if he were balancing a very delicate silver glass atop his head that threatened to shatter at the slightest movement. For a moment his amber eyes lifted and met Tyelpe's, and Annatar nodded and smiled knowingly at him. Tyelpe set his wine down.

"I will gladly quaff your wine, milord," Églanim volunteered, his words slurred.

"Do," Tyelpe said before rising and stalking over to Annatar at the other side of the chamber.

"You're late again," Tyelpe told him.

A smile played at his lips. "How unfortunate."

Tyelpe went on. "The feast has nearly ended—"

"Oh, do remind me—when the feast _has_ ended, I would like to have a word with you." Annatar waved him away and went to a group of Gwaith roaring with laughter by some forgotten jape. Tyelpe crossed his arms and walked back to the bench.

"Failed communion!" Églanim was cackling when he returned. "Failed, broken, lost!"

Tyelpe gave him a jug of water to sober him up, then departed the room.

A few hours later he met Annatar at an unpopular tavern in the eastern side of the city where the shadowed mountains of Hithaeglir could be seen outside the window. Annatar had called for some cakes and tarts, all flavored lemon, but they had not come for half an hour yet. They had not spoken much; it was mostly Annatar prattling on about how wonderful it was to have the Rings completed at last after their long years of hard work while Tyelpe sat there unmoving. Then, finally, Annatar ran out of gossip to prattle of and they glared at each other in an uncomfortable silence.

"You're angry at me," Annatar said at last.

Tyelpe gave a bark of laughter. "Why would you think so?"

Annatar did not answer.

"Three years," Tyelpe said, holding up his fingers. "Three years that you have thrust me into the position of Lord of Eregion and drove Artanis out of the city."

"I heard she goes by Lady Alatáriel now," Annatar said softly.

Tyelpe ignored that. "I heard she called you a deceiver."

"Was she not one herself? If not, then why did she leave?"

"Don't you dare speak of that," Tyelpe warned.

"Speak of what?" Annatar said innocently. "Correct me if I am wrong, but you do quite enjoy your new title. You enjoy having a sense of authority and dignity after they have shunned you for the deeds of your father."

"I am _not_ Curufinwë," Tyelpe hissed. "Not my father, nor my grandfather."

In the candlelight, Annatar's eyes glinted. There were words in them—dangerous words that he did not speak aloud... _but you formed the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the brotherhood of most talented artisans since the time of Fëanáro himself. Are you not following straight into their footsteps?_

"I see," Annatar said.

"Why have you called me here tonight?" Tyelpe demanded.

"To talk."

Tyelpe ground his teeth together. "I am beginning to feel very vexed with you."

"I can see that."

Tyelpe sighed. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to treat you to a collation of lemon tarts," Annatar said. Tyelpe did not like the way he said the word _treat_ , as if he were a circus animal that needed rewarding. "Findaráto once told me you liked them."

"You knew Findaráto?"

Annatar's nod was smooth. "I met him once as I was passing through Nargothrond."

Suddenly Tyelpe did not want to speak of Findaráto as a cold feeling that he could not explain washed over him.

"On the morrow we should experiment with some of the silver rings," Annatar mused. "Do you remember the exercises for ósanwë that I taught you?"

"Yes," Tyelpe said curtly.

"Spectacular—oh my, the cook is setting himself on fire with our lemon tarts."

It was true; the cook was screaming and trying to swat away flames in the back kitchen. Annatar seemed to find it a comical sight.

"You head on back, Tyelpe." Annatar was striding to help the cook. "I shall assist our dear cook in this dreadful tragedy." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Tyelpe helped anyway but left before Annatar could speak any more to him. His chambers were dark and chilled when he entered and the curtains were flapping in the wind, trying to break loose. He did not light his tapers, however, and wandered to his personal forge, dark and unlit. Atop the cold furnace, three jeweled sat, glinting as the curtains flew. One, the Ring of Sapphire, two, the Ring of Adamant, three, the Ring of Fire.

" _Vilya, Nenya, Narya,"_ Tyelpe whispered.

Keep them close. Keep them hidden.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ataressë._ (Q) Father-name.

 _Amilessë._ (Q) Mother-name.

 _Eressë._ (Q) Solitude.

 _Ósanwë._ (Q) Interchange of thought.

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body.

* * *

 _A/n: I named this part_ Oblivion _after Astor Piazzolla's Tango, Oblivion. I highly recommend to listen to it :) I would paste the link here, but it doesn't let me_


	34. Chapter II-II

CHAPTER II

* * *

— _The Prisoner Beneath the Fortress—_

In the dream, he was a boy, his brother a boy, and his father still young. Golden poppies grew and fluttered in a windy meadow that had never been. By the meadow there was a forest, and beyond the forest there was a fortress—a grey, daunting fortress that towered above the meadow and the forest, always watching. But at the time, the flowers in the meadow cared not and continued their dance gaily in the wind.

The meadow was timeless. The boy could play there for hours and think that mere moments had gone by. Such was how things had been when the boy was naïve and green like the meadow he danced in. It was so for both boys, actually, and their father. In the meadow that had never been, they cherished and loved each other.

Nonetheless, as time passed, the grey fortress beyond the forest grew more daunting and prominent, especially for the father. There were duties he had to attend to, promises to keep. So, dusk came and he retreated into the forest, back to the fortress. The two brothers remained, but for a little while.

The older boy was first of the two to point out the dimming sky. "Brother, the sun is setting." It was true; the once golden sky had darkened to grey. The heavy clouds loomed overhead like an admonition.

"Let's play a little more," the younger pleaded. "It's not dark yet."

But the older boy shook his head. "Father says dark things lurk in the woods at night." He made to leave but his brother caught him on the arm.

"Brother—"

Suddenly the last light of day slipped beneath the horizon, and the meadow's green melted into a lonely grey. A gale swept through the forest, shaking their silver-leaved boughs as a flock of ravens ascended, cawing, into the air.

The younger boy held on to his brother's arm fearfully as he glanced around the suddenly transformed place. "Maybe we should have gone back home." His stomach felt odd, as if he had eaten something bad and was in a nightmare.

He soon found that the latter proved to be true. The wind whispered through the trees again, the noise seeming to grow louder and more piercing, like a whistle, and when his brother turned around, the face was stone. Sickening yellow eyes glared back at him, the only color in the entire meadow. The grey stone-like face seemed to be so brittle that it threatened to flake away and his hair had been wasted away until there were only a few meagre strands left. The boy's mouth had fallen open in astonishment and he released his grasp upon his brother's arm, stumbling backwards, but his brother held on. His grip was iron, as strong as the stone he now was, and when he opened his mouth to speak, only a terrible whispering sound came like a wind out of his mouth. But beneath the hissing, there were words—words he did not know, words he could not decipher.

"…you did…it…" The brother's eyes were as angry and passionate as the glaring sun. "…you…killed her…"

And the boy knew that the words were true. A hideous screaming came rushing out of the brother's mouth and his stone face began to disintegrate into ashes and dust with the wind. The screaming grew so treacherous and piercing that the boy covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut to rid himself of it to no avail. The last he saw was the ashes of his brother swirling about him in a windstorm, like a curse—

The prisoner beneath the fortress woke with blood in his mouth and hair stinging his eyes. The stone floor was as cold as his dream. He realized he had bitten his tongue and, wrenching the irons bound around him, spit a gob of blood on the ground before him. He cursed as the unhealed wound at his side stung at the movement. The guard outside heard the racket and came before the bars in a swaggering gait.

"Is there a problem, _lieutenant?"_ The guard leaned dangerously forward into the bars, pressing his face into the cell.

The prisoner did not answer and spat blood in the guard's face. It fell short a few inches, however, and the guard sneered.

"Your ability to spit in my face is far-fetched. Too far for me to ever even fetch it, even if the king demanded it of me." The guard grabbed a cup of ale by the cell where he had been sitting and tipped it over into his mouth. Some ran out the corners of his mouth and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. "Like any ale, lieutenant?" He laughed and tossed it into the prisoner's face, drenching his hair.

The prisoner stared back at the guard with undaunted and loathing eyes. "Tell me one thing," he hissed, shaking the ale out of the hair that had grown over his face. " _Who_ sentenced me here? Who wanted to gift me such a slow, tormenting death? I would like to thank him thoroughly. Will you do that for me?"

The guard sat down and slurped up some more ale. "Perhaps."

The prisoner waited.

"What will you give me in return, lieutenant?" the guard drawled.

"My name is Rhystórë, son of Lord Daethad."

"Lord Daethad is dead," the guard said around his liquor. "Poisoned by some whoring handmaid." He set his mug down and leaned forward. "I don't believe it, though. The girl was what, fourteen? And a maiden, I hear. She had no wits to poison a lord as great as the Lord of Lond Daer. And the funny thing is…" The guard sighed and licked his lips. "The new lord barely even punished the girl. She's now _his_ personal handmaid and cupbearer…and likely a maiden no more. They say the Lord of Lond Daer will make her his bride."

"What is the name of this girl?"

The guard shrugged. "That incident was two years ago, why would I remember such a thing? I saw the girl a few times though. She's sixteen now, I would think. A pretty one, with dark waves of hair and sea blue eyes. I've never seen eyes so reminiscent of the sea before."

"Nythiel," the prisoner murmured.

"What was that?" the guard said. "Now, look, I've told you much more than you could ever give me, lieutenant. Why don't we play a little game?"

"Who is the new lord of Lond Daer?" the prisoner demanded.

The guard smirked. "Doesn't look like you'll ever know."

The prisoner wrenched upon his chains and stared straight into the guard's eyes. "Who is the new lord of Lond Daer?"

But the guard only drank his ale. "You're nothing now but a prisoner beneath the fortress, lieutenant. Best you know your place. Besides, I'm sure you know who this new lord is, deep inside your heart." He simpered and stood, unlocking the cell and stepping inside. "Let's play our little game, prisoner."

"My name is Rhystórë," the prisoner whispered.

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

"Open your curtains, for the Void's sake, and stop drinking," Atharys snapped as he entered my chambers and slid my windows open. He snatched the cup of red wine out of my hand and poured it out the window.

"I can't," I said. "I can't walk."

"Then stop sleeping." Atharys looked as if he was about to slap me in the face. "Get up."

"I'm tired."

"It will be necessary to become un-tired, then." He grasped my arms and hauled me upright. "Get up."

I looked at him wearily and did not answer.

Atharys sighed and let go of my arms. "You need to."

"Why do I need to?"

"Because—because—"

"While you talk, give me my wine back."

"I poured it out the window."

"Give me another one. It is called problem solving."

Atharys pursed his lips but did as I asked.

"Go on," I said, when the glass had been pushed into my hand.

"You need to," Atharys began, "because." He paused. "Because you must."

"You are less eloquent than I was when I was seven."

He frowned. "I do not know how to explain it."

I sighed. "That's a pity." Then I set the wine on my bedside table and fell asleep.

A few days later, I woke up in quite the same manner. I did not know if Mairon had come when I was sleeping, but Atharys was there again, looking more disgruntled than he had the last time I had awoken.

"Give me some peace, for Varda's sake." I reached for the glass I had left on the table, but it was empty.

"That's a pity," he mocked. "I drank it."

"Did you, or Mairon?" I laid my head back on my pillow. "Did he even come?"

Atharys bit his lip, uncomfortable. "He did."

"What did he do?" I inquired. "I ask according to your expression."

"Nothing," he said. "He just came and left."

"Dear Elbereth, I thought our dear father would have cared about me more than that." My voice dripped of sarcasm. "Has he ever tried to kill you?"

"On accident," Atharys told me.

"I'm sure it was a very tragic accident," I said. "Good luck to you. What I'm also sure of is that you have more wine in the cellar."

"I'm not giving it to you," he said firmly.

"No matter. I can have some handmaid retrieve it."

"I am your handmaid."

I gave a bark of laughter. "Oh, that's funny. If that is so, then you are quite a terrible one. Serve your princess, Arda damn it."

"No."

"I will tell you the secret words." I grabbed his collar and pulled him close. "All you have to do is say 'fuck it' and then the magic happens."

Atharys pulled away. "No."

"Fuck it," I said, and threw off my covers. "I'll get it myself." I stumbled to my feet and fell to the ground.

Atharys started. "Hith—"

"That was a mere demonstration. Now will you say the magic words and retrieve my wine?" I set my hands on my hips. Quietly I realized that he had called me by my Sindarin name.

His expression was incredulous. "You've stood."

I looked down—it was true. I wasn't the least surprised, though he was. "Well, isn't that fortunate. Now, say the magic words, Atharys—" Yet suddenly I didn't care about the wine anymore and decided to climb back into bed for a long nap. But as I did so, my right arm shook and I slid off to the floor and met darkness.

When I woke, I was on the ground where I had fallen. It might have been moments later, minutes later, days later—I didn't know, and I didn't care. My head was throbbing and a ringing was in my ears. Atharys was beside me as I opened my eyes and glared at him.

"The wine will help," I said.

"The wine will help," he agreed, and went to the cellar.

I laid my head back on the ground and fell asleep.

The fourth time I awoke, I was comfortably back in bed. "You need to eat," Atharys told me. He had a bowl with a spoon in his hand.

I waved it away. "I don't want it."

"Hith—" Atharys sighed. "Please."

I allowed him to shovel a few spoonfuls of the stuff into my mouth before I pushed it away. "I don't want it."

"Stop it," he said suddenly.

I was confused. "Stop what?"

"Being like this. You've been like this for months now."

"Has it been months?" I had not known that, and didn't particularly care.

"Yes."

I let my head loll back on the pillow. "What do I do."

"You can begin by walking—" Atharys tried.

"No. That's not what I meant." I glanced at my half-brother out of the corner of my eye. "What do I have to live for?"

Atharys looked down, wavering.

"You do not have an answer because there is none." I noticed that the sky outside was grey, and wondered what time of the day it was. Perhaps it was always dark in Morinórë. "You wouldn't understand, Atharys. You are so young in your years. I have striven, have struggled to find a better life and have failed too many times. Sometimes I do not think there is any good in trying anymore, because then I have somewhere to fall. If I am at the bottom, then I cannot fall any more."

Atharys looked as if he wanted to speak but had no words to say, so I continued.

"You brought me to a place I did not want to be," I said quietly. "You and our father. Though I do not think I would be any more content anywhere else."

"I'm sorry. I had no choice," Atharys murmured.

I chose not to answer to that. Sighing, I turned to the windows Atharys had opened and studied the grey sky a little longer. A shimmering mist seemed to envelop the air, like how it had been in Hithlum. "Aurë entuluva," I whispered.

"What was that?" Atharys asked.

"Aurë entuluva," I told him. "At least I remember those words."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Aurë entuluva._ (Q) Day will come again. The words of Húrin Thalion in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad ere he himself fell with all the rest.


	35. Chapter II-III

CHAPTER III

* * *

— _Naergon—_

"I am here, Your Grace," Naergon said, bowing.

Gil-galad stepped forward and helped him up his reverence. "Do you know why I have summoned you here, Captain?"

"I cannot know for sure, but. . ." Naergon hesitated. "Is it something about the Númenóreans?"

"That too," Gil-galad admitted. Sighing, he turned and paced by the windows. "I was thinking about Lady Híthriel, in fact. I sent a messenger to Eregion to see if there were any news of her, but they have had none. It seemed that she meant to cross Hithaeglir yet never came out of it."

Naergon stayed silent.

"But that is not why I have brought you here. Eregion is in more of a disarray than I would like it to be. They have driven Lady Artanis out of the capital Ost-in-Edhil and none know where she is now. Tyelpe, my cousin, has taken over, though the reports seem as if he does not enjoy the position."

This was known information; Naergon had no comments to make of it.

"They do not seem to be spawning any rebellions against my rule," Gil-galad continued, "but I do suppose we should do something about it." He turned to Naergon. "Have you any words to say?"

"Your Grace," Naergon began, "I think we should investigate in the matter more before making a move. There are many things we must consider if we are to restrain Eregion."

"A well crafted answer," Gil-galad said. "Do you remember that craftsman that came to our halls in around 1200?"

"The one that called himself 'Lord of Gifts?' Yes, quite frankly. He was an odd one."

"Reports say that he went to Eregion after we rejected him here in Lindon, and was actually received there. I would have thought Artanis had a better sense in her. Look at this." Gil-galad produced a letter out of his cloak and handed it to Naergon, who peered at it cautiously.

"It is from Artanis," Naergon noted. "When did she send this?"

"I do not know, but I only received it recently." Gil-galad lowered his eyes to the paper to indicate him to read it.

Naergon scanned the letter then looked up incredulously. "Annatar's fëa is a powerful one, then. He is not what he seems to be. Is he still in Eregion?"

"So my messengers have told me. Do you still believe we should investigate more in the matter?"

"Yes, of course," Naergon said. "If this Annatar is someone more wily than we are, then we should have evidence before we make any claims."

Gil-galad nodded and continued to pace around the chamber. "And I am told—"

Naergon whirled around as he heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor told him. A guard hurried in the chamber and bowed hastily.

"Your Grace—" The guard stopped to take a moment to breathe. "Someone is here to see you."

"Is is so urgent?" Gil-galad inquired. "Who is it?"

"Your Grace," the guard hesitated. "It is Lord Glorfindel—"

Naergon laughed. "Have you been drinking?"

The guard lowered his head. "N-no, my lord. . ."

But Gil-galad was frowning. "Bring him in," he said.

The guard bowed again. "As you command, Your Grace." With that, he hastened out of the chamber, still bent over and half-bowing. Naergon glanced at Gil-galad, but the latter remained indifferent and unmoving. Then a few moments later, when Glorfindel indeed emerged into the chamber, Naergon gave a shout, leapt backwards, and drew his sword as Gil-galad's eyes widened.

Glorfindel raised his hands in mock surrender. "I would prefer not to die a second time so quickly."

The Noldorin lord looked the same has Naergon had remembered in Gondolin, though his hair was bound up, and for good reason. Naergon strode forward and prodded him gingerly with his sword to be sure he was actually there. "The Valar allowed you to return."

"This is a smart one," Glorfindel proclaimed, pointing to Naergon. "I'm sorry, but do I know you? I can't quite seem to remember everyone I knew."

"No, not personally," Naergon said, "but I lived in Gondolin."

"Oh, I see." Glorfindel turned to Gil-galad and bent a knee. "Pardon me for intruding, Your Grace."

Gil-galad straightened. His eyes were distant, as if he was lost in a thought or memory. "Has it become so dire? Has it—"

"Your Grace, are you all right?" Naergon stepped forward. "Stay back," he hissed to Glorfindel.

"No," Gil-galad said. "It's fine. Let him stay." He lifted his eyes to Glorfindel. "Something must have gone very wrong for the Valar to have sent you back here."

* * *

— _Híthriel—_

A mask. That was what I needed. Something to conceal who I was. It didn't matter if the mask melded into my face and became a part of me, it didn't matter if I truly became the mask—all I needed was the end task to be the same.

Mairon stepped onto the balcony and stood beside my chair, joining my vigilant watch over the terrain. I suspected he had done so himself many times. The trees in bone-forest beneath the tower of Lúmë-mindon had such gnarled boughs that they seemed like hands reaching up toward the sky, seeking something out of reach. The forest was south, but the lands I had come from were northwest. From the tower's lofty heights, I could see the mountains of Hithaeglir in the distance, where I had died. The words sounded odd upon my tongue, so I said it aloud.

"Hithaeglir, where I had died."

Mairon drew in a breath of the morning air. "Indeed, yendenya. How does it feel to breathe again?"

I had not thought about that. I inhaled deeply as he had done a few moments ago and considered the feeling. "Interesting."

It was interesting to think how Eregion was just at the base of Hithaeglir, and Lindon a little beyond that country. Well, perhaps not a little beyond—it took a few weeks to travel between them—but everything seemed to be so small a distance from here, from the near summit of Lúmë-mindon. Gil-galad would be in Lindon, if Mairon had not waged a war in the three and a half years I had been gone and killed them all, and so would Naergon, I supposed, unless they left. And Tyelpe would be in Eregion, but Hithaeglir. . .

I would find her. I would find Taeloth, whether she be living or dead. I had seen her with the Easterlings as I fell into darkness that last night I drew breath. Perhaps in Hithaeglir I would begin to search, but discreetly.

" _It was your weakness, and now it is your strength,"_ I murmured. Those had been the words that whispered in my ear when I had first awoken. After the ritual, Mairon had fallen unconscious from the power that the revival had drawn from him, but the Ring said it for him. They were one—the golden trinket upon his finger and himself—if one perished, the other would fall. Atharys had told me how he had stumbled upon the fact that the Ring was also linked to the very tower we stood on right now, causing me to muse of the possibility of, if Mairon or the Ring were to someday perish, Lúmë-mindon would explode long with them. That would be quite an interesting sight.

"Yes," Mairon said, plainly, though there was something else he was trying to convey hidden behind the word.

I remembered that bit of information and stowed it in my mind. It may come in good use later on.

"Will you return to Lindon?" Mairon inquired.

"You are asking if I will leave Morinórë." I turned my head slightly to look at him and tapped my finger against the glass of red wine in my hand.

A crafty smile spread across his face. "Like father, like daughter."

"If you must." I looked back to the wide terrain, my gaze sweeping over Hithaeglir and Eregion and Lindon in the far distance. "Yet there is one thing you would not do that I will do right now."

"And what is that?"

"I will give you a direct answer. No. I am not leaving Morinórë. Nor am I returning to Lindon."

"Those two have quite different meanings, don't they?" Mairon mused. "There is a difference between leaving Morinórë and returning to Lindon. You can return to Lindon yet still remain in Morinórë. Your allegiance will remain here."

"And why do you think that I would swear my allegiance to you?" I said.

"I don't. I have no notion of what you would do. I was merely translating your little riddle. In that case, it was certainly not a direct answer."

I did not reply to that. "Atharys tells me that you pose as a craftsman of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain in Eregion."

"Not false."

"Then what is true?"

"Not much. And I expect he also told you of how I raised Tyelpe to Lord of Eregion?" he inquired.

"Indeed," I said. "You drove Artanis and her child out of Ost-in-Edhil and kept her husband as a captive to ensure her good faith."

"Not a captive," Mairon corrected, holding up a finger. "Why don't we say he chose to stay according to his own beliefs?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What did you tell him?"

"Quite frankly nothing," he said, "save the fact that dearest Lord Tyelpe and Lady Artanis had something questionable going on."

I gave a bark of laughter. "I expected you to do more in such a long period of time. By this time in the First Age, Beleriand had sunk."

"I have learned patience."

"I should hope you did. I should hope that the entire world has not sunk by the time your conquest is finished."

Mairon ignored that. "There is a council meeting at noon."

"I'm afraid you'll have to give me a list of all the people with drawings of them beforehand—I will have so much trouble memorizing all their names and faces."

"Tell Atharys to do that for you."

"So you are expecting me to attend?" I smiled coyly. "My lord, you cannot demand it of me so early in my recovery. I can scarcely walk without tripping upon my own feet."

"Well isn't that unfortunate," Mairon said. "I suppose I'll have to have Atharys carry you."

I glanced at him pointedly, pursing my lips. "Give me a pair of crutches, for Varda's sake."

He tried to ignore my mention of a Valië, yet I noticed. "I'll send them up."

"Or you could delay the meeting. . ."

"What is it you want?" Mairon demanded, his indignation finally revealing itself.

I smiled. I had received what I had wanted—I wanted to test him, to see what he could do.

He turned away, huffing in annoyance. "You will be there."

"I would get up and bow for you, my lord, but it is quite impossible for me at the moment," I said. Only Atharys and I knew that was untrue, I hoped.

Mairon had regained his composure by the time he looked back at me at the doorway. "That is not an issue, yendenya."

"My lord," I said, as he was about to leave, "you have become more like your master than yourself."

He gritted his teeth. "I have no master." Then without another word, he swept out of the room and was gone.

"A mask," I murmured to the wind. "How about I play the part of Hrysívë?"

* * *

— _The Prisoner Beneath the Fortress—_

The prisoner beneath the fortress had long stopped caring, though he still longed to know. Or perhaps it was that he only told himself these things, but inside he still remembered and yearned to see the sun again. It was then he realized that he had not seen the sun in so long, and he wondered how long it had been that he was in here, trapped in this prison he could not escape. He too remembered the words that the guard had told him and kept them in his heart. There was a hope in his heart of escape that could not be doused; he thought of himself naïve but he did not care, though he would have before. The prisoner watched a rat scuttle over his soiled feet then raised his head as a clang came from the doorway—the sound of the cell being opened.

"As you requested, my lord," the guard said as Belyswë's shadow was cast on the ground before him. The prisoner did not look up enough to see his face.

"Why is he bound?" Belyswë demanded.

"We have been told that he is dangerous, my lord." The guard had his head bowed.

There was a silence. "Leave us," Belyswë said.

"As you wish, my lord."

The prisoner heard the scrape of the guard departing the cell, but made no notion of knowing. A moment or two passed, then Lord Belyswë suddenly bent down before him and tilted his chin up to face him wholly.

"Hello, brother," Belyswë greeted him.

"My name is Rhystórë," the prisoner rasped. "How did you kill Father?"

"How they say," the Lord of Lond Daer said. "Your former handmaid. What was her name—Nythiel, was it?"

Rhystórë bit his tongue but said nothing.

"You look like an old man," Belyswë commented.

The prisoner curved a sardonic smile onto his cracked lips. "And for that I thank you."

"It smells awfully like your piss in here, dear brother." Belyswë studied the cell. "Why do you assume I put you here?"

Rhystórë stared straight into his brother's eyes. "Is that a true question, my lord, or a mere game?"

Belyswë laughed. "A jape. Yes, I condemned you here, but they were not my words, they were Father's." Suddenly his eyes were alight with a passionate fervor that Rhystórë had scarcely ever seen before. Typically this fire was hidden beneath a mask of static display and indifference, but now the suddenness of its appearance made it daunting.

Nonetheless, Rhystórë held his ground. He had nowhere to fall, after all. "Yet you planted those words in Father's ears."

"Oh, of course." Belyswë barked another mad laugh. "Yes, of course I did. The price is paid now, you need not worry."

Rhystórë furrowed his brow. "What price?"

"My mother," Belyswë said.

" _Our_ mother."

"Shut up, or you will lose your tongue. You never had a mother, Rhystórë, because you killed her when you were born—"

" _I did not have a choice!"_ Rhystórë roared. "Go ahead. Wrench my tongue out with your bare hands and cripple me all you like. I know you mean to execute me on the morrow. The guards have told me of the trial."

Belyswë struggled to regain his composure. "Not if you tell the tale I want you to tell."

"If not on the morrow, then the fortnight after that. And if you don't succeed, it'll become a month, a year, a decade, but I know." Rhystórë shook a finger wildly, rattling his chains. "I _know._ You want me dead, and by your hand. You will not rest before that is done."

Belyswë struck him full in the face. Rhystórë could not fall over nor could he raise a hand, but he could feel the blood running down his cheekbones and the anger rushing to his face. He could do nothing, however, and only growled, spitting blood. This time the gob of blood hit him between the eyes. Belyswë turned away, his chest heaving.

"You don't know what I feel," Belyswë breathed, then left.

Alone in the cell, Rhystórë laughed. "I have never heard anything so correct. That is right—I don't know what you feel! I don't know!"

The prisoner beneath the fortress laughed himself mad, until the blood on his face had dried and he had forgotten what he wanted.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Lúmë-mindon._ (Q) Translation of Barad-dûr.

 _Yendenya._ (Q) My daughter.

* * *

 _A/n: Just letting everyone know, I don't reread these things at all so there may be some really bad grammar mistakes or plot holes...but I promise I'll try harder on my original works haha ;)_

 _Thank you so much to all the readers and reviewers! Y'all are what keep me writing! :)_


	36. Chapter II-IV

CHAPTER IV

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

A few days before Mairon's visit, he had sent over a handmaid in place of Atharys, who had to return to his regular duties rather than watching me brooding and moping. Her name was Eressë, and after a hint of inquiry I soon learned that she was a courtesan, and would continue to attend to that duty while she served me. I had no say in the matter, apparently, so I let it alone for now. I summoned her over now and stood by my window, my hands clasped together, as I waited. It was half an hour before noon—when the council meeting was arranged to take place.

"You called for me, my lady?" Eressë had entered the chamber quietly and bowed her head as she spoke.

I turned from my place by the window and lifted my chin; yes, I remembered—I had to play the part of Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë. The mask had to be so powerful and convincing that it would meld into me. I could not take the mask off, not for a long time yet.

"I am called _Your Highness,"_ I said, my voice cold. "For I am the Princess of Morinórë, do you not agree, Eressë?"

Her head jerked up at the mention of her name, then she immediately bowed down again. I could tell from her demeanour that she was daunted. "Please forgive this one, Your Highness. This one's words slipped, that is all. Please punish this one as is righteous."

"I have no time for that." I strode over to the wardrobe, though my legs still burned and shook a little from their disuse. "Help me dress. I am going to the council meeting this afternoon."

Eressë hastened over, and though she looked down I could see her eyes were wide with fright. "As you command, Your Highness."

A little over a quarter of an hour later, I was making my way to the council room, clad in sapphire garb. The silver light from outside shone through the windows, but the sun was high, so half the corridor was still cast in shadow. Lanterns were held aloft by guards every dozen yards in this part of the tower, yet otherwise I was alone, and all was silent. I drifted past the guards as quietly as the clouds looming overhead, and they lowered their heads at my approach. And it was then I heard murmurs in the corridor and thus slowed my gait to hear.

"The former Númenórean lieutenant is still being imprisoned in the dungeons beneath Lond Daer," Atharys was saying. "I have questioned a few of the guards myself. They say it was his brother, the new Lord of Lond Daer who framed him and condemned him to this fate."

"Quite an intriguing story," Mairon said. "I hope you eliminated those guards."

I leaned forward and caught the glint of a candlelight in Atharys' eyes. "They died tragically to a mishap."

"This Númenórean," Mairon mused. "He could be an amusing pawn in our little game. Say nothing of this in the council."

"Say nothing of what?" I inquired, walking into the corridor. I smiled at both of them and inclined my head. "Greetings, my lords."

Mairon scowled at me. "Keep your silence on the matter, Hrysívë."

I bowed again, none too mockingly. "As you command, my lord."

Mairon strode into the council room without another word, but Atharys remained, looking at me incredulously.

"Hith—" Atharys began.

"My name is Hrysívë and you will refer to me as _Your Highness,_ " I said.

He wholly ignored that. "I didn't think you would come."

"I doubt our dear father did, either." I beckoned him toward the door. "In after you."

Atharys smirked, imitating my gesture. "Ladies first."

I laughed, though there was no humor in my voice. I had to force it into my expression so they would all be deceived, each one of them. _Better be accustomed to this role now, or the game could go awry._ "This one knows his manners."

It was only a matter of minutes before all the rest of the council began filing in the chamber. Mairon's seat was at the head of the table though he was not present at the moment; he had vanished by the time Atharys and I had entered the chamber. I took my seat on the left of Mairon's place as Atharys took the right.

The first to come was an Avar eunuch by the name of Lord Undanya—Atharys informed me of all their names and titles through ósanwë as they entered. In their respective orders of arrival, there was Undanya, Nínquë, Tiríssë, Angaino, and Hestáryn. They were a pleasant mix of the races of the Eldalië, Avari, and Maiar.

 _Is this all of them?_ I asked Atharys through ósanwë.

He flicked his eyes to the door. _There are two more. . .two Easterling newcomers. They have sworn their allegiance only recently. This will be their third council meeting, I believe._

 _More than I._

Atharys made to answer but stopped, for the two Easterlings strode through the doorway, in a single file. The one in front nodded at some of the other lords then locked eyes with me. I noted that he was, in fact, quite young—only sixteen, if I had to guess. But there was a sudden flicker of something wild and passionate in his widening eyes, and I frowned at the expression.

The Easterling boy leapt forward. "You."

Lord Angaino, the older Easterling who had long been in Morinórë's court, stood. "Is there a problem, Lord Khamûl?"

But the Easterling boy continued to walk forward, shaking his finger at me. " _You."_

"Stand down, Lord Angaino. I will take care of this boy," I said, then turned to the one called Khamûl. "Have we met?"  
Khamûl drew in a shaking breath and an unreadable emotion flashed and froze in his eyes, wavering in indecision. It was one of those moments when you suddenly remembered something terrible that you seemed to have forgotten for years on end although it was this very thing that drove you on through the bitter years. There was utter shock upon his face, and anger, and sadness too, a blend of consolation and suffering. I watched these things fly through his face, all while wearing the cold mask of Hrysívë, and it was in this very moment that I reached out with ósanwë to his thoughts, seeking what recollections he had of me. . .

Beneath a veil of diaphanous silver—there was a boy, scarcely eleven, helting up a crossbow to defend his father's life. An elleth stood before him, holding a dagger to his father's throat, an indifferent mask melded to her face. I closed my eyes. Hithaeglir. It had seemed too long ago, but times like this were difficult to forget. Yes, I remembered how I slit the throat of the boy's father and let his limp body flop off the crag to the Easterling camps hundreds of feet below. I remembered that utterly cold feeling of detachment in my eyes when I had been bent upon revenge, a mad ambition.

Then that expression vanished from his face, concealed under the part of chieftain he had to play. It was a dangerous game—one slip, and you would fall.

"Perhaps once before," Khamûl said, walking casually to his place at the council table, "but no more." He sat himself across from Angaino, and the Easterling that had been behind him took the seat beside him.

Atharys glanced at me. _Killed anyone lately?_

 _Evidently not._ I jerked my chin to the Easterling beside Khamûl. _Who is he?_

 _A lesser chieftain under the command of Khamûl,_ Atharys told me. _His name is Esgarin._

I cocked my head at the Easterling. He was young also, I realized, like Khamûl, who was only around sixteen or seventeen. This one had to be at least twenty, though. And it was then that Mairon came in through the doorway, last to arrive, his entrance perfectly timed. He came, however, just as Esgarin was whispering something treacherous to Angaino. I caught the words with little difficulty.

". . .bad luck to have a woman in court," Esgarin was saying.

"I'm sorry, Lord Esgarin?" I said innocently.

The Easterling's head shot up. "Did I say something? I don't recall."

"Is there a problem here?" Mairon inquired as he took his seat at the head of the table.

Esgarin stood and bowed to Mairon. "I was merely wondering who the newcomer here is and what part she may be playing in the court, my lord. I meant no harm."

An interesting smile curved onto Mairon's lips. "You, Lord Esgarin, are having the honor to meet Lady Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë, my firstborn child."

The Easterling's mouth opened and closed, gaping like a fish. "Oh," he said, stuttering. "I see. I am profoundly sorry if I have offended anyone, my lord." He hastened back to his seat.

All the others had similar expressions of surprise upon their faces, except for the one called Tiríssë, I noticed. He masked his thoughts well, and possessed a practiced cunning, as a Maia. Anger seeped back into Khamûl's eyes.

 _I should hope the situation improves,_ I told Atharys.

 _That would be ideal._ Atharys flicked his eyes to Mairon as he began to speak.

They spoke of many trivial things that were not to my concern, yet I listened nonetheless. Every detail would assist me to better play this little game they were so insistent on playing. I noticed how Khamûl did not speak very much and kept his gaze down to the table most of the time. I wondered what plot he was conspiring to frame me before Mairon, to bring me down one day, and I did not blame him. I would have done the same; I had done the same, in fact, and I would do it again.

"Lord Khamûl," Mairon said. "How is the tribe of Hwestrach faring? How long will it be until they are conquered?"

"My lord," Khamûl began, "the Wainriders are struggling to conquer Insangar and his people. They are more powerful than we had foreseen, and I am afraid we will need more forces to triumph over them." Insangar was the chieftain of the tribe of Hwestrach, the largest tribe of Easterlings there was. Over the long years, Khamûl had managed to name himself Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, yet there were others with this same dream. He unified numerous tribes under his own banner, but there was Insangar, his greatest rival.

"Hm," Mairon said. "Lord Tiríssë, what do you think of this matter?"

The Maia of vigilance called Tiríssë looked up. "My lord. . .I believe I will be able to lend my forces to Lord Khamûl to conquer Insangar. It seems that unless he has any more aid, we will not be able to have control over them."

"That would be beneficial, indeed." Mairon turned to the cocky young Sinda sitting beside me. "Lord Hestáryn, are you willing to lead these forces?"

"It would be my pleasure," Hestáryn drawled.

"Good," Mairon said. "Then the council is dismissed."

Some of them spoke a little amongst themselves after the meeting, but Mairon headed straight out, and Khamûl directly after him. Lord Undanya, the tongueless eunuch, sauntered out of the chamber leisurely; he had no one he could talk to. I saw Esgarin, the Easterling that had been with Khamûl, begin to depart the room, so I hurried up to him.

"Lord Esgarin," I said, inclining my head.

He halted, then turned back to me, forcing a polite smile on his face. "Greetings, Lady Hrysívë."

"You will refer to me as _Your Highness,_ Lord Esgarin, or do you not agree that I am the Princess of Morinórë?" I gave him a coy smile.

Esgarin pressed his lips together. "Yes, of course, Your Highness. What is it that you desire?"

"I heard you have a tribe of your own here in Morinórë, yet lesser than that of Lord Khamûl," I mused.

"I do," Esgarin said stiffly. "Your Highness."

I leaned forward to whisper the words in his ear. "Have you seen a Sindarin girl with silver hair amongst your people?"

"I have no Quendi in my tribe. We are all proud Wainriders." He paused and sweetened his tone. "But, Your Highness, I will keep an eye out for this Sindarin girl for you, if you would like."

"Hm," I said. "That would be much appreciated."

"If I may be excused now, Your Highness." Esgarin bowed and made to leave, but I caught his arm.

"Lord Esgarin," I murmured. "Your loyalty would be pleasing to me. . .if you could say none of this to any others."

"As you command, Your Highness." Again he bowed then departed down the corridor.

A few moments after the Sinda Hestáryn appeared by my right. "Your Highness," he said by way of greeting.

"Lord Hestáryn." I found myself thinking if it was by chance that he had that smirk glued to his face.

"His Highness Atharys had spoken to me of your awakening. I hope you are feeling better now that you are attending council meetings," Hestáryn said.

"I am feeling much better now, thank you for your concern," I told him. "How are you doing yourself?"

"Quite pleasant, in fact, beside you," Hestáryn drawled. "I heard that you are very skilled in swordplay and the martial arts, Your Highness. May I have the honor to spar with you?"

I gave a bark of laughter. "Where did you hear that, Lord Hestáryn?"

He shrugged, his expression nonchalant, though I knew that these words had been planned. "I can't seem to remember. . .that's a pity."

"Quite a pity," I said. "It seems you made it up. I have somewhere to be, Lord Hestáryn. Perhaps I shall see you on the morrow." With that, I departed and left Hestáryn seething in the corridor.

* * *

— _Naergon—_

"Dolothen," Naergon said by way of greeting as he approached the scout Glorfindel had appointed to investigate the east.

Dolothen inclined his head, turning from where he had been preparing his horse. "Captain."

"If you are prepared, you may take your leave," Naergon told him. "How many are in your company?"

"Six, including myself," Dolothen said. "When we reach Eryn Galen, we will be sure to send a raven."

Naergon nodded. "Good. I wish you luck."

They had sent out five units in total—Dolothen's was set for Eryn Galen, two to explore the lands south of Eryn Galen, one for the lands south of Eriador, then one for Eregion. The ones set for Eryn Galen and Eregion would go south to investigate after they brought their message to those realms. The latter one was led by Elerondo, son of Elwing and Eärendil, who would remain in Eregion as the lieutenant of Gil-galad. Glorfindel himself would be set upon that route while Naergon stayed in Lindon to defend the king, though Gil-galad insisted otherwise. He had not ordered it to be so, however, so Glorfindel had Naergon stay.

 _Something must have gone very wrong for the Valar to have sent you back here,_ Gil-galad had said. Glorfindel had admitted to not knowing himself; Manwë would not tell him what had happened.

"We all know the wind cannot speak," Naergon had jested, but Glorfindel had lifted a finger to the wind howling outside and proved him otherwise.

Along with the reembodied Glorfindel, two Maiar who called themselves Istari had been sent over. Their names were Morinehtar and Rómestámo and they both wore garb that was such a sea-blue Naergon wondered if all they did in their free time was worship the Valar. These two Istari were to accompany those that were exploring the lands east of Hithaeglir.

It was scarcely dawn now as Naergon made his way back to his quarters. He was about to enter when a servant hurried up to him with a package in his hands.

"Lord Naergon," the servant said, bowing. "This is addressed to you, from Eregion."

"Eregion?" Naergon repeated incredulously. He regained himself and received the package. "Thank you for bringing this to me."

The servant hastened away as Naergon retreated into his quarters. The package was quite heavy, and when he sat down to look at it more closely, he realized that it was from Églanim after opening the note attached to it.

 _A gift,_ Églanim had written. _A golden arm._

That was it. Naergon frowned and tore open the package. It was, indeed, an arm made out of pure gold.

"This is going to be heavy," Naergon muttered to himself, "but I thank you nonetheless." He glanced at the rusting metal arm he had been using.

Then when Naergon tried it on, he found that the golden arm moved to his will.


	37. Chapter II-V

CHAPTER V

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

"What did you tell Hestáryn?" I inquired of Atharys as we walked down the corridor a few nights after the council meeting.

"Nothing more than what he asked," Atharys told me, turning a corner.

"Hm," I said. "I wonder where he heard of my former skill in swordplay."

"I'm sure it's still brilliant," he assured me.

I laughed. "You are such a green boy, Atharys. Why else would I be asking you to do this?"

He shrugged and kept walking. The torchlights upon the walls made the guards look ghastly like living statues; I could not see their faces veiled by their helms. Outside the sky was dark, for it was a new moon and only a few of Elbereth's stars revealed themselves tonight. Watchers paced upon the newly built gates, torches flaming in their hands. I wondered how long it would be until Gil-galad discovered this place—then Mairon would be forced to reveal his true identity and there would be war.

"Is this the place?" I asked as Atharys halted before a heavy iron door.

"I should hope so," he said, grunting as he hefted the doors open.

I glanced at the guard a little away from us in the corridor, and threw a pouch of coins at him. It landed before his feet, but he did not waver in the slightest. I approached the guard and leaned into his ear.

"Share that amongst your friends here," I told him. "Say nothing of our presence. We were never here."

I left the guard there in the corridor and when I turned back, the guard was in the same position as before but the gold pouch was gone. Atharys grabbed a torch, handed it to me, and dragged the doors close behind us.

"You are quite determined about your reputation, aren't you?" Atharys remarked as I handed the torch back to him. He held it up against the gloom and began lighting all the other torches upon the walls.

"I do have to live up to the expectations, don't I?" With the fires, I found myself in the middle of a circular chamber, the perimeter of it filled with dusty bookshelves. There was a cart of old swords to the side and different styles of chain mail on another. At the other side of the room I found a smaller brass door which led to a long rectangular chamber that was something more like a corridor. A target was centered at one end, and there was an ample supply of arrows with their respective bows at the other. Atharys was watching me when I turned back to the first chamber.

"Shall we begin?" I said, though the words were not truly a question.

"If it pleases Your Highness," he jested.

I did not smile, however, and unsheathed the sword I had strapped onto my back. It was heavy to my unpracticed new hröa, and I had to heft it in my hands. Atharys studied me as he unsheathed his own, the torchlight reflecting in its blade.

I stepped forward and our blades met. They clashed, swerved, hissed like fire snakes in the night. After a mere minute my entire body burned and my fighting arm felt as heavy as stone, and I was terribly angry at myself for doing a fraction of what I could before. My brow was furrowed in concentration and I clenched my jaw so hard I felt it would break, though neither of these did me any good. Atharys was being too polite in his attacks, which made me all the more angry.

When a few more minutes had passed, Atharys stepped back and lowered his sword. "You need a rest."

"I do _not,"_ I hissed, though I was breathing hard.

Atharys sat upon the floor, making dust fly in the air. "Are you going to toss me a pouch of coins?"

"No." I spun my sword in my hand. "Get up. We're going again."

He sighed but did as I said, this time making the first move. I parried the blow and ignored the burning in my arm, charging forward.

It was a mere five minutes before Atharys halted again and let his sword fall to the ground. "It might be more helpful if we worked without them so you could become more accustomed to this hröa."

"If you must." I threw my sword to the side as Atharys kicked his to the door, and curved my arms into the first fundamental stance. Though it was considered a basic position of defense, it could be used as an offensive technique also, as how I needed to be—the serpent in the shadows. This form was very specific to its stances and technique; the body scarcely moved when it attacked because extra movement wasted energy. Atharys evidently had never learned this form, but I still had trouble. I required more of my strength, and he was taller and stronger than I was, thus again I found myself fuming and spitting in his face. My blows seemed to do nothing while his left bruises on my arms.

"Fucking bitch," I seethed when he backed down.

"You asked for it," Atharys said apologetically.

"I _know._ Doesn't mean I enjoy it." I seized my sword from the ground. "Again."

This continued for about an hour or so, but I not once overtook Atharys. Towards the end, Lord Nínquë, the Noldo from the court, came to summon Atharys up to speak to Mairon, finding him with a blade at my throat. I kicked Atharys off and went to the back room before Nínquë could even say a word. Atharys knew better than to come to me before he departed, so I was left alone by the dusty, crumbling arrows until the torches burned out and I was left in darkness.

* * *

— _Atharys—_

Atharys entered the chamber and bowed. "You called for me, my lord?"

"I may have." Mairon continued to scrawl words in black ink upon a parchment, finished the page, then stood up. "Have a seat, yondonya." After Atharys was ushered into the chair across from him, Mairon seated himself again and gazed out the window. "It is past midnight."

Atharys followed his gaze. "It is."

Mairon's eyes glinted, as if he knew why he had been awake. "How is Hrysívë?"

"All right."

"That is good to know." Mairon sighed and looked at something to his right. "Like any wine?"

"I don't see why not." Atharys accepted the glass of red wine, tasted a sip, then set it down upon the table between them. There was a brief pause as he waited for Mairon to speak.

"Do you remember what you told me before the council a few days ago?" Mairon inquired.

"About the Númenórean? Yes." Atharys paused. "What of him?"

"I would like you to retrieve him from Lond Daer."

Atharys wavered and looked down, lifting the glass to his lips and drinking a little to hide his surprise. "How soon?"

"Soon enough, I would expect," Mairon said. "I heard his brother, the Lord of Lond Daer, has condemned him to an execution to ease the vengeance throbbing in his heart. Quite amusing how they quarrel, isn't it, Aþārithīr yondonya?"

Atharys disregarded the comment. "Should I tell my half-sister of this?"

Mairon leaned back in his chair and took a swig of the wine himself. "Preferably not."

"As you command, my lord." Atharys bowed and made to excuse himself, but Mairon called him back.

"Leaving so soon?" Mairon pouted.

Atharys turned back. "Is there anything else you require of me, my lord?"

"Can a father and son not sit and have a pleasant talk without any fixed reason?" Mairon was putting on a fine act of looking shocked. "Come, yondonya, reclaim your seat. More wine?" Though Atharys had scarcely touched it, Mairon poured him some more. "How have you been doing yourself?"

"Fine," Atharys said.

"Have you nothing else to say?" Mairon asked. "I am your father, you can tell me anything."

"Nothing," Atharys answered.

"Ah, how unfortunate," Mairon sighed. He took a long drink of his wine, his feet crossed in the table. "If you are so eager to carry on your task, you have my leave."

Atharys bowed and retreated out of the chamber. His hand was at the doorknob when he paused again.

"One more thing," Mairon said. "Would you retrieve Norkáwen for me?"

Atharys did not reply and exited the room. In the corridor, he found one of Lord Undanya's little spies waiting to report. The ellon's face was ghastly in the dimly lit torchlights as he bowed before him.

"Speak," Atharys commanded.

"The Númenórean Rhystórë's trial is on the morrow, Your Highness," the informer said.

"How convenient," Atharys mused. "Tell Lord Undanya he will be well rewarded for his assistance in this case. And go retrieve that slave girl for Lord Mairon—Norkáwen."

"As you command, Your Highness." The informer bowed and marched off into the gloom of the corridor.

Atharys watched him leave until he could not see nor hear him then chuckled to himself and headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

It was a few hours after midnight that they came to summon her. Beneath the new moon, Norkáwen had been sleeping, but fitfully. Ever since she had seen Khamûl swear his fealty to Lord Mairon that day, it seemed she could not sleep. It had been Eressë that had restrained her from stopping him, though Eressë was mostly gone from the brothel now, gone to serve some princess of Morinórë. Norkáwen didn't know whether or not she was glad for that.

The guard roused her sharply, jabbing her with the end of his wooden spear. His words were curt, and she scarcely heard them, but she heard that it was Lord Mairon calling for her and that was all she needed to know. She threw off her sheets and dressed quickly, not wanting to anger the Lord of Morinórë by her slowness.

There was no need for an escort, for Norkáwen knew where Lord Mairon's chambers were. In fact, everyone did, though few ever had the opportunity to serve him there; it was at the center of the utmost floor of Lúmë-mindon's towering heights. Norkáwen glanced up at its rough location and began to ascend the stairs.

By the time she had reached her destination, her legs were burning and she was breathing heavily. She braced a hand upon the wall for a moment as she caught her breath and regained herself; she knew she had to be presentable to the Lord of Morinórë, as then perhaps he would find something in her and reward her with a better place in society. The thought vanished, however, when she remembered she was only a little slave girl—she was nothing, and she did not even remember her name before.

Norkáwen entered Lord Mairon's chambers with her head bowed, as every good slave girl should be. "Your Norkáwen is here, my lord."

"Very well," Lord of Morinórë said. "You may rise."

Though Norkáwen was permitted to rise, she knew that she must not wholly embrace that, for it could be mistaken for a ruse of irreverence if she did so. Thus she rose from the ground but kept her head down to convey her submission and respect for the Lord of Morinórë. "What is it that you desire of Norkáwen, my lord?"

"I have a favor to ask you," Mairon said.

"Anything for my lord." When Norkáwen glanced up she saw that he was scarcely paying attention to her. "Norkáwen is yours to command."

Mairon looked up from his paper and propped his chin up with his arm, fingering his pen. Ink dripped off the point and made blots upon the parchment, but he seemed not to notice. "Do you remember your name, Norkáwen?"

She fought to remember. "No, my lord."

"Do you remember who you were?" he inquired. "Your past may be beneficial for my purposes now."

"I remember. . ." Norkáwen faltered, wondering if this was a test. "I do not dare say it before His Majesty."

Mairon laughed. "I am no king. I am only here to set what is right in this world. My children play that game, however, insisting on their titles. I am afraid it began with the audacious one, Hrysívë." He dismissed his musings and turned back to Norkáwen. "Say it."

"My lord," she began. "Norkáwen was a bastard child. Her mother's husband was killed in Doriath and her mother wounded. Another ellon healed her mother after the battle and she fell madly in love with him. He broke her heart and she leapt off a cliff shortly after birthing the child. Norkáwen. . .Norkáwen does not know who this ellon is."

"Go on," Mairon said.

"The child's uncle raised her. His name was. . .his name was Oropher of Doriath. Norkáwen does not know where he is now. She remembers, nonetheless, that he was a kind ellon."

An unreadable emotion resonated in his eyes. "But the Lord of Gifts knows where he is."

Norkáwen looked up in astonishment. "You do?"

Mairon nodded. "Yes, I do." He leaned forward. "Dear Norkáwen, I am asking you for a favor. Will you oblige?"

"Anything for my lord." Her words were breathless. "Norkáwen is yours to command." She bowed deeply and vehemently.

"That is good," Mairon whispered. "Norkáwen, your uncle is in Eryn Galen. I ask for you to go and find him for me, and tell me what he is doing."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda, plural _ellyn._

 _Elleth._ (S) Female Elda, plural _ellith._

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body, plural _hröar._


	38. Chapter II-VI

CHAPTER VI

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

They had taken the East Road through Eriador and would follow the Mitheithel River south to Eregion. Presently they were somewhere in between, in a village the inhabitants called Archet, a remote settlement of the Bree-land set among the trees on the northern edge of the Chetwood. They had only seven in their company—Glorfindel, Elerondo, and five others from Mithlond—the innkeep was not all to annoyed of having so much popularity, but suspicious of Eldalië in mostly Atani populated lands. Though Glorfindel had tried to be as discreet as he could, he still seemed to lure the attention of those around him.

"We need information," Glorfindel had told Elerondo. "Try to talk to the villagers to see if there have been any queer happenings here. Even rumors might be useful."

Save for the necessary talk that Glorfindel needed to get around, he had scarcely spoken to Elerondo. Verily, he had not spoken to anyone since his return to Endórë and found himself often occupied with a nameless fear. He wondered who he could speak to of these things, thinking of the people that had been with him before, but they were all gone and dead. Elerondo had been born in Sirion twenty-two years after Glorfindel's own fall in Gondolin and Gil-galad had never met him, being sent to Falas as a suckling babe. No one knew where Artanis had gone, and they said that Híthriel was dead.

The door creaked as Elerondo entered the room. "Lord Glorfindel."

"No need to be so formal," he said. "Have you any information?"

"None," Elerondo told him. "Most would not speak to me and those that did asked questions and spoke gibberish."

Glorfindel sighed. "It is as I expected. All right, then. It is getting late, Elerondo. Why don't you get some sleep? Tell the others we leave at first light."

Elerondo bowed. "I will be sure to, my lord."

When Elerondo had left, Glorfindel stood from his place by the fire and went to the window, misty with condensation. He lifted a hand and wiped the glass with his sleeve and watched the little lights outside. Being back in Endórë, he found himself remembering things he did not think he would remember. . .

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

"My lord," I said, curtsying, "it is a pleasure to meet with you tonight. Might you have any wine in your cellars?"

Mairon laughed. "Amongst the people I have met with for the last few days, you are the first to ask for the wine rather than accept it."

I smiled a wily and wicked smile and inclined my head. "Do I not have the right?"

"You do," Mairon said, and we drank a toast together.

"May I ask what we may be toasting to?" I inquired when both of us had set our glasses down.

"You may." But Mairon made no notion to answer.

I leaned forward, chuckling. "What are we toasting to, atto?"

"Do father and daughter need to have a reason to drink together?" Mairon licked some more wine off his glass.

"Evidently not," I agreed, playing along. "You are very right in that."

"I heard you have been recovering well," Mairon mused.

"Oh?" I said. "From whom?"

"Your dear brother, of course," Mairon told me. "Who else?"

I was not in the mood to correct him and say _half-brother_ , as that would have made me sound much too like Fëanáro. "Ah."

Mairon went on. "Khamûl's forces have just returned to Morinórë with heavy losses. They find it very difficult to conquer the tribe of Hwestrach and their chieftain Insangar. Especially their Insangar."

"Hm. Is that so?"

"Yes, I'm afraid. Though I have never met this chieftain himself, I have heard him to be a powerful and merciless man. He will do anything to reach his goals."

I nodded slowly for a long moment, trying to resist the laughter boiling up within me. At last I could not resist and the ridiculous bark of laughter burst from my lips. I supposed it might have been polite to cover my mouth and suppress my laughter, but at this point I scarcely cared.

Mairon watched me with irritated amusement and pursed his lips. "Too much wine, yendenya?"

"Oh no," I said between fits of laughter. "I am not the child I was before. It is only that—" I laughed again, like a drunken man. "The way you phrased that makes it sound as if _you_ want _me_ to lead the next assault. Mm? Am I right?"

"Somewhat," Mairon said, though there was a wily look on his face.

"Do give me the pleasure of knowing then, my lord. I cannot wait to know the truth."

Mairon slammed a paper on the table before me.

I flicked my eyes up to note his expression and slid the paper into my hands. "A treaty, is it?"

He did not answer.

I scanned the treaty proposal and fought to keep my countenance cool and impassive, holding the paper a little higher to hide my face. "Hm."

Mairon waited.

"Hm," I said again.

"I thought you would laugh," Mairon said.

"I might." I put the paper down and leaned back in my chair. "It is very amusing, indeed. They will ally with us if they are well paid and sealed in a good marriage alliance, is that not so?"

"Quite."

"Or. . ." I knew I was struggling to compose my emotions and drew in a long breath. "When they come to discuss this, you can find some excuse to have them attack you. Kill their chieftain and the rest are done."

It was Mairon's turn to laugh. "Trying to get me killed, dear yendenya? We don't have as many forces as you think. Much less than the Easterlings, I can say."

"You know how binding marriage is for the Eldalië. None have married twice save Finwë."

"Are you volunteering yourself?"

"I thought you were volunteering me," I said stiffly.

Mairon laughed again. "Yes, I am. If you comply, that is. This cannot work unless you do." When I did not answer, he went on. "Oh, I forgot. I married you to that ellon, didn't I?"

"He was Mirnetyo, son of Thuringwethil."

"Ah, yes. He is here, you know. Here in Morinórë. He was the first experiment in bringing back fëar from Mandos. My Ring had not been fully forged then, and I did not use it for that, thus the experiment did not go as intended."

I did not look up. "He is something of a wight now, then?"

"Yes, I would say so." Mairon sighed and paused a little. "What do you say to it?"

"Do you have the money to pay them?" I said.

"No," Mairon confessed.

"But I am money enough, aren't I?" Now I found the situation amusing enough to laugh. "This is absolutely spectacular. Send your emissary out to the Easterling Insangar. His dream has been fulfilled."

"Now?" Even Mairon was incredulous.

"Why not?" I said. "Tell him to come on the morrow, or whenever he can. We'll have to discuss the terms, won't we?"

"Of course," Mairon drawled. "I cannot wait."

* * *

— _The Prisoner Beneath the Fortress—_

Today had been the first day he had seen the sun in years. He had raised his arms (best to his ability with the chains upon his wrists) to the blessed light and laughed like a madman to feel the utter warmth seeping to his skin. Though he knew it would likely be his last time seeing the sun, he still laughed, and cherished it. As the commoners began the gasp and shield their children, the guards had wrenched his arms down with the chains and continued to march him down to his trial.

He didn't know where they had found so many people to testify against him, many were people he had never met, but some he recalled. The Lord of Lond Daer himself testified, and Nythiel too, though she looked as if she did not recognize him in the slightest. He scarcely recognized her, anyhow; she had grown three years and was not a woman half-grown of sixteen, they said. Her cheekbones had sharpened and her eyes more blue. The hair that had been cropped short in the time she had served him had grown out to long dark waves. _I've never seen eyes so reminiscent of the sea before,_ the guard had said. He balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth, then forced himself to loosen.

 _I do not care of this,_ he told himself. _I do not fear death. No words can harm me now._

The Lord of Lond Daer still called him brother beneath honeyed words of spite and sorrow, but he knew he had no brother. That man that had been his brother told the people of how much he had cherished his younger brother and loved him and was greatly appalled by what he had done to betray him and the realm. Lies upon lies. Who could ever live such a life?

The prisoner beneath the fortress wondered if his mother had been watching during his trial, wondered if his mother blamed him for her death just like his father and Belyswë, wondered if her death was really his doing. Perhaps it was. Fate had caught up on all of them after all. In time, Belyswë's crimes would be revealed and he would be punished. The prisoner laughed to think that the Lord of Lond Daer might die the same way as he. It would be even more amusing if Nythiel had done it.

Now he was back in his little musty cell, the fetters chafing his wrists. And the prisoner beneath the fortress knew he would be prisoner no more.

He smiled. _Free at last._ Death would give him that gift, if the Lord of Lond Daer would not. He wondered how he still had the strength to smile. A rat scuttled about the corner of the cell and came sniffing up to his toe. It prodded his foot a few times and tried to sink its teeth into the flesh but he jangled his chains and it went hurrying off. He sighed and leaned back, waiting for the end to come. Perhaps they would hack his head off, he mused, or hang him. Maybe even burn him at the stake like a witch. He wondered how he thought of these things so unflustered—perhaps he had finally grown into the fearless man his father had always wanted him to be.

With these aimless thoughts, the man trapped beneath the fortress drifted off to sleep.

* * *

There was blood at his feet when he woke.

He simply accepted the fact that it was there and made to go back to sleep—that was, until he heard the ring of steel and saw the body thump to the ground. _My brother is rescuing me,_ he thought wildly, until he remembered that he had no brother. He could not move very much in his fetters so he could only sit up a little straighter and watch the circus happen.

A man cloaked in shadow was quietly getting rid of all the guards in the dungeons. _Helpful, I suppose, unless he means to hack my head off first._ He could not help but marvel at the man's skill as he soundlessly slit the guards' throats and lay their bodies gently on the ground. The man cloaked in shadow moved like a shadow—he supposed that was why he referred to him as such—and much like a cat too, creeping and pouncing upon his prey with scarcely any hesitation. He could not see the man's face; for a moment he thought it could have even been a woman.

Then all the guards were dead and the man was striding towards his cell. Like a bell, the door clanged open and the man leaned forward, studying his face. After a heartbeat's pause, the man raised his sword, broke the chains binding him, and hauled him to his feet. The former prisoner groaned as the blood came rushing back to his fingers and feet and rubbed his chafed skin.

He dared a glance up to his rescuer and found that it was a man, and quite a young one. He might even be more accurately described as a boy. "Were you so eager to beat my dear brother to my death? You do mean to have my head off first, don't you?"

"Don't tempt me," his rescuer muttered, and dragged him out of his cell.

Somehow they passed the great brass doors, the fortress' corridors, the gates of the city only seen by the freshly dead. Rhystórë laughed and rejoiced at the sight of the moon, the sky, the stars he had never cared about before tonight and fell to his knees, crying. The wind was cold and crisp but so real, so reviving, and though the grass poked and tickled his legs, he brushed his face against it and rolled in it like a buoyant dog.

His rescuer hissed in annoyance and hauled him back to his feet. "We have to scale the wall."

"This is a dream," Rhystórë murmured. "You're an angel. You can fly."

He shrugged. "The latter is true."

Then suddenly Rhystórë saw two great shadows that were wings had sprouted from his back and taken aback, he stumbled backwards. "You're a Maia."

"And this is no dream," his rescuer said. "I seem to have a thought that you would be more useful if you shut your mouth. . ."

Rhystórë only felt the thump upon the back of his head before all vanished into darkness.


	39. Chapter II-VII

— _Atharys—_

"Let him in," Mairon commanded.

Less light shone from the windows into the throne room than usual, Atharys thought, as he scanned the people standing about the room. Hrysívë was there, and all the court too along with a few of their noble ladies. His half-sister stood with her chin lifted high and proud, as if she feared nothing. She was clad in a black chiffon décolleté, her dark hair garnished with silver ornaments that scintillated as she turned her head. A corresponding glinting pendant that looked suspiciously like a smaller version of a Silmaril jewel rested upon her throat upon a delicate chain. Perhaps it was some guise or jape of hers, likely to Mairon.

The doors were thrown wide at Mairon's order, and Atharys saw the silhouette of a man of stalwart build walk though and come before the throne. None could yet see his face for the blinding noonday light that shone through the door, though many could tell from his demeanour that he was a confident man. Then at last, when the guards closed the doors behind him, his countenance was revealed.

Fierce eyes greeted them all in such a nonchalant way that some seemed to inwardly leap back with surprise. His dark hair was bound half up in braids entwined with golden bands, the rest sitting upon his shoulders like a handful of horse's mane. The mien of him reminisced of someone Atharys had once knew, but had long forgotten until now—a mask of pompousness to conceal the fear and doubt he kept in his heart. He smiled at Mairon as if they were old friends sharing an unspoken jest, then flopped himself to his knees.

The chieftain of the Hwestrach spoke the native tongue of the Easterlings, a language most of those in the court did not know. Then he bowed deeply, the action almost mocking; he called himself Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders though the other one, Khamûl, did too. Atharys saw Khamûl stiffen out of the corner of his eye. The sister of Khamûl, Khalentharia, that had been designated to be the translator, spoke. She was a fierce young warrior of fifteen or sixteen, though seeming more a woman than a child. Even in the throne room, she carried her spear at her back.

"Insangar, Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, pays his respect to the High Lord Mairon of Morinórë." Khalentharia paused for a moment as Insangar spoke again. "Long live the king, he says."

"I am no king," Mairon said, stepping from his throne and down the few stairs. He always had some way of carrying himself loftily, even when he inclined his head. "Lord Insangar."

Khalentharia translated the words.

Insangar looked up and spoke.

"I am no lord, he says."

"You will soon be." Mairon gave him an interesting smile as Khalentharia translated.

"He asks you to excuse his impatience, Lord Mairon," Khalentharia said. "He asks if you accept his terms."

"Wholly," Mairon told him.

Insangar was evidently surprised. "Hm." It seemed he had not meant for Mairon to comply. This time he spoke much longer and seemed to be fulminating more than speaking formally.

Khalentharia paused, considering. "He hears that you have the title of Lord of Gifts."

"Indeed," Mairon said, the smile still curved upon his lips.

"He says that this is a great gift indeed. For this, he thanks you."

Insangar looked as if he wanted to say more but did not know how to phrase the words in the most favorable fashion.

Hrysívë stepped forward, curtsying. "I hope you enjoy your gift, my lord?"

He frowned at her, then at Khalentharia for an explanation. Khalentharia glanced at Mairon for a brief moment, hesitating, before telling him.

"You are having the pleasure to encounter Lady Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë," Mairon said, scarcely moving.

Insangar's face broke into a smile. He studied Hrysívë for a while then began to pace the room.

"He says that this is quite unfortunate," Khalentharia said.

Mairon took a sip of his wine. "If anything is amiss, I can gladly set it right for you, Lord Insangar."

Khalentharia looked up slowly as she considered her translation. "He says that he has just gotten his thirteenth concubine, and he is afraid he is unfit to marry a princess."

"I am bastard-born, my lord," Hrysívë said. "This is not—"

"Súrë túla cendeletyallo." Mairon spoke sharply. "Áva quetë!"

Hrysívë gave Mairon a black look, and Atharys felt the ósanwë between them pulse.

Insangar spoke a few words and laughed as Khalentharia looked at Mairon reluctantly.

"What did he say?" Mairon demanded.

"My lord," Khalentharia began. "He jests that he sees no wind."

Mairon turned back to him slowly, dangerously. "It is an expression. I apologize for the interruption. If you mean the honor the treaty, then you can drop the courtesies and do as you said."

"He says that he did not expect such a good marriage," Khalentharia translated. "He. . .he expected it to be one of your courtesans."

Mairon barked a laugh. "Ah, I am not so ill-mannered. Come, tell me why you seek vengeance."

When Khalentharia had conveyed Mairon's meaning, an interesting look came into Insangar's eyes and he stared directly at Mairon.

"The Eldalië have killed too many of his people," Khalentharia said. "He has many reasons of his own."

Mairon clasped his hands together. "Very well. Is it done then?"

Insangar told Khalentharia.

"It is done," she said.

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

"Eryn Galen, is it?" Lord Nínquë mused, pacing the chamber with his hands behind his back in a courtly manner. Norkáwen remembered him from her observations in the council meeting to be the only full Noldo in Morinórë's court.

"Yes, my lord," Norkáwen said quietly. "Lord Mairon wishes to—"

"And you are willing?" Nínquë murmured.

Norkáwen bowed so as for him to not see her face. "Norkáwen lives to serve the king."

Nínquë chuckled. "You should know that Lord Mairon does not prefer to be called that, little one."

"Please forgive this one for her mistake and punish her in the name of Lord Mairon." Norkáwen held aloft the whip for him.

"Put that down, little one," Nínquë said. "What is your name?"

"Norkáwen, my lord."

"Your name before." Nínquë bent down to look at her face. "What was your name before?"

She looked away. "Norkáwen does not remember, my lord."

"I'm sure you'll remember in time." Nínquë patted her head and stood. "For it is necessary for you to remember it in order to carry out the task at hand. Lord Mairon _has_ bestowed the order for me to be in command for this assignment. Though, it is possible to use a different method. . ." He gazed in deliberation out the window north, the direction of Eryn Galen. "Do you know what to do?"

"Norkáwen is too dull-witted to understand, my lord," she said.

Nínquë turned. "You must understand the layout of the city and draw it accordingly. I hope that is not too much to ask."

"No, my lord. Norkáwen will carry out your orders with duly precision."

"That I hope. But I am afraid this cannot come so soon. I must first train you for this. You must learn patience—the art of biding your time. Making a move too soon will only do you worse," Nínquë said. "Go now. I will call for you on the morrow."

Norkáwen bowed. "Thank you, my lord."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

Narbeleth dreamt that when she woke, she was surrounded by water. Her bed was floating amidst a drowned land, and scattered things were strewn about around her, bobbing upon the surface of the ocean. She started and scrambled backwards, nearly falling in, as her bed wobbled dangerously, threatening to flip. Soon she had learned to balance her weight and stay near the center, but she feared the creatures lurking beneath the water. Once or twice she thought she saw the tentacles of a sea monster wrap around her bedpost and swim around her, mocking her. The water was so unclear, however, and she could never be sure of what she was seeing. There were only shadows lurking about and vanishing when she tried to see them.

There were some stray sticks floating in the water, and she thought she could use them as paddles, but to do so she would have to lean over so far that she was afraid. She looked desperately around for any trace of land, but there was only water and the horizon. After what seemed like hours of trying, she gave up at last and fell asleep, clutching her blankets as close as possible.

When she woke again, her left hand was dangling over the bed in the water. She jerked it up quickly, her fingers numb from the cold. She clutched it close to herself and found that her entire arm had numbed. Most of the things that had been scattered amongst the surface were gone so that it was only her and the water—only the water.

She looked down to the shadows beneath the surface and wondered who they were, but she realized suddenly that they were all gone. She bent forward anxiously, rocking the bed. There was something different in the air, something sinister. . .Narbeleth dreaded it. She looked slowly up to find a massive wave gathering higher, higher—

The wind was howling and her hair was flying about her eyes, in her mouth so she could scarcely see clearly. It climbed ever higher, like a the great wings of an eagle swooping down upon its prey. All the dark creatures beneath the water and her things from her home in Eryn Galen too were littered in the mighty wave even as it yawned, its gaping hole preparing to swallow her whole.

Narbeleth woke as Hînaeryn was calling her from the kitchen. She stared at the ceiling for a few unseeing moments, breathing heavily, and massaged her numb hand. Then getting up, she went to the window and threw open the curtains. The king's tower in the distance was grey and distant like a forgotten ruin, but there was no yawning wave readying to swallow her whole.

The ocean would find her, whether she wanted it or not.

* * *

— _Hith—_

The sun was fading beyond the mountains when Atharys climbed up to the ledge to sit by me. It was a place in the Ered Lithui that I found pleasant to go when I wanted to be alone. I did not turn and instead murmured: 

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

 _silivren penna míriel_

 _o menel aglar elenath!_

 _Na-chaered palan-díriel_

 _o galadhremmin ennorath,_

 _Fanuilos, le linnathon_

 _nef aear, sí nef aearon!_

When I was finished, the mountains seemed more silent and vigilant than they were before. "They do not sing it in the old tongue." I turned to Atharys. "It is a hymn to Varda."

Atharys nodded but did not speak.

"Would you ever want to go to the Eldalië towns? Live in them, I mean?" I asked.

A wistful look came upon his face. "That would be nice."

I didn't say any more, so he turned to me suddenly.

"Why did you do it?"

"What?" I inquired.

"Agree to Insangar's terms."

"Oh," I said, turning back to the landscape. "Isn't the sunset beautiful?"

"Hith—"

I cut him off. "That's not my name anymore."

Atharys sighed exasperatedly. "Why did you offer to be Insangar's—"

"Do I need to tell you everything, Atharys?"

He was at a loss of words at that. "I don't. . ."

I laughed. "That was a jape. Don't tell atto."

"Tell him what?" Atharys leaned in to hear.

I paused, considering my words as Atharys waited.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Ah, forget it. Don't tell anyone."

"I haven't even heard!" Atharys protested.

"I don't mean to tell a sniveling youngling."

Atharys glared, reminding me of Moryo. Sighing, I turned away, but put on a jesting tone. "I've always wanted a little brother to bully—I'm so glad you showed up. Back in the old days, I was always the little one." I glanced at Lúmë-mindon in the distance. "It seems it is time we put those masks on again, little brother."

"What did Insangar want from you last night?" Atharys said suddenly.

I feigned ignorance. "What do you mean?"

Atharys pressed his lips together. "I know he went to your chambers."

Deciding it would be no use to conceal it, I leaned my head back on the stone. "As expected, he wanted to see if he liked me. Atharys, I won't be seeing you for a few months after my departure. I wish you well." With nothing more, I let my wings unfurl from my back as I sprang off the crag and followed the wind back to Lúmë-mindon. I was Hrysívë once more.


	40. Chapter II-VIII

CHAPTER VIII

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

When Rhystórë awoke, his head was throbbing and his nostrils were filled with the smell of fermented mare's milk. The blinding midday light was shining into his eyes through the tent flap billowing a little as a gentle wind caressed his face. He groaned and tried lifted his head when a lilting voice spoke, not all too impatiently.

"About time," the voice muttered indignantly. "I haven't got all day for foolish men the likes of you."

Rhystórë turned to find a young woman stirring something in a pot over a small cookfire. She stopped stirring promptly and poured the white milky liquid into a stone bowl, blowing on the steaming liquid. It was then when she turned that Rhystórë could see her clearly; she had such a powerfully built body that even he was intimidated, and her brown eyes were stern and defiant as a mother lioness' as she ushered the bowl to him.

"Drink," she commanded.

He scowled at the bowl she had thrust before his lips. "What is this?"

"Something that will help," she told him curtly. She tried to tip it into his mouth then but he ducked to avoid it.

Rhystórë shoved the bowl away stubbornly. "I don't want it."

She sighed. "It is called _aeglos_ amongst my people. Fermented mare's milk. Will help with the headache."

All the time glaring at her, Rhystórë allowed her to feed him the _aeglos_ and tried to recall the events the night before that had apparently not been a dream. Analyzing her appearance and accent, he conjectured that she was one of the Easterlings he had been ordered to decimate when he was still the Númenórean lieutenant. Though he still remembered his commands, he doubted anyone from before remembered him, likely not even Gil-galad. It confused him, nonetheless, for from what he recalled he had been rescued by a Maia, one of those fabled lost races from the land called Aman.

"What you thinking of?" she demanded. "Your face is all puckered up as if you eaten an aurangzeti."

Rhystórë did not have the slightest idea on what an aurangzeti was but he focused his eyes back on her nevertheless. "You're an Easterling."

"We call ourselves Wainriders, Númenórean," she said pointedly, speaking as if a child. "We ride wains."

"Hm." Rhystórë scarcely tried to hide the fact he thought she was odd to him. "Do you happen to have a Maia around here?"

She looked to be offended. "Now look here, Númenórean. I've been looking after you for the past two days while you been sleeping on your ass and you don't even bother to ask my name? Worse is, you ask for someone else."

"All right, all right," Rhystórë said, as if swatting away flies. "What is your name?"

"Khalentharia, daughter of Thaelin." She spoke as if the words were an insult.

"It is wonderful to meet you, Khalentharia. I am—"

"Oh, I know well who you are, Númenórean. The Maia you been looking for told me all," she retorted.

"So you do have a Maia," Rhystórë murmured.

"Not around here," Khalentharia said.

Rhystórë looked at her pointedly. "What do you mean?"

"He left. And he ain't a Maia. He's part Maia. The other half of him is Quendi. I can't say which, though."

"Hm," Rhystórë said.

"What is 'hm' supposed to mean, Númenórean? Hm?"

"Where are we?" he asked, ignoring her queries.

"Right now?" Khalentharia chortled. "I can't say. I told you, we're Wainriders. We ride wains. We move."

"So you do live in tents, then? I always thought that was some jape."

"You really need to watch your tongue, Númenórean." Khalentharia was shaking her head and making the _tsk tsk_ noise. "I'm a proud Wainrider. You don't want to offend someone the likes of me. And my brother's Grand Chieftain, anyhow. You should know _that_."

"I should," Rhystórë agreed. "Why did the Maia—"

"I told you, he's part Maia. His name's Atharys, son of Lord Mairon himself."

Rhystórë knew neither of the names. "Why did he bring me here?"

"You would think a man would want to escape his execution."

"But—who is he? Why does he even know who I am? Why did he want to help me? Why?"

Khalentharia _tsk_ ed again and shook her head. "So many questions. I would think a man should be grateful that he lives and still draws breath."

" _No."_ Rhystórë slammed his fist down on the small wooden table, stabbing splinters into his knuckles and spilling the pot of _aeglos._ "I did not want to live another day—I was glad for the end. You would not understand how utterly lost I was those years down there. Three years. _Three fucking years_ in hell. It swallowed up three years of my life and left me an old man. I was seventeen when my brother decided it would be easier for him to throw me down there. Why did he— _why._ "

She appeared to be unmoved by his speech and began to clean up the broken pot. He nearly expected her to say something along the lines of, ' _You're welcome, I shaved your beard'_ or some other jape, but she said nothing of the sort.

"If you want to know, Lord Atharys said for you to blend in with the 'Easterlings' until you are of more use," she said in indifference.

He was angered by her nonchalance. "What game are you playing with me?"

Khalentharia had gathered the remnants of the broken pot in her hands and now stood, striding towards the opening of the tent. When she had nearly vanished through the flap, she paused but did not turn. "One that will profit."

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

The wedding had been festive and fake—fake courtesies, fake smiles, fake oaths. All knew of its untruth and still all played along. Every word spoken and thought was a lie and every nod and courtly smile was planned by some hidden scheme. _If you do not accept my proposition, then it may be said that we are sworn enemies when you walk out of this door._ People all around were bribed, forced, conspiring. It had me wondering how anywhere in the world could be safe when these people still drew breath.

"Remember to tell them that the Lord of Gifts is merciful. He brings light where he goes," Mairon had whispered into my ear. "Remind them that you are a gift. They do not owe me _anything."_

My eyes glinted in the near darkness of the wee hours of the morning. "But now they owe me."

Mairon chuckled. "Clever girl. I am proud, yendenya."

"You should not be. Not yet." I swirled my wine a little, making something like a sea storm in my glass.

"I wonder how soon they'll want you to consummate the marriage," Mairon mused, casually studying the paintings on the wall.

"Then you need wonder no more," I said.

Mairon sighed, the mask he so diligently wore slipping a little. "I had you learn their tongue before you went. Words are power."

"I do not believe anyone can adequately learn a language in a few days."

He turned away. "You think I have so much power."

"Everyone does. Why do you think they say so?"

Mairon glanced at me. "They. You said they."

I smiled an artificial, depraved smile as I approached him slowly, my hands behind my back. Though he did not pull back, I could sense his disquiet. "I did say _they_. Because I can see through your hideous mask that you nail on yourself every living moment. Because I _know_ that when I tear it off, you are nothing more than rotten flesh and shivering bones and broken promises. Because I will—" I broke off, then drew in a shuddering breath. I closed my eyes for a long moment, and when I exhaled, they opened too. And when they opened, they were filled with something that even Mairon would fear. Even the vultures could smell it. "Maybe if you truly embraced this role of _villain,_ you would fare better."

Somehow Mairon returned my gaze, his eyes fiery and intense. "Do you see this?" He pulled down his neckband to reveal a jagged scar. "And this?" A similar one entangled itself up his arm. "Those were the scars I suffered to bring you back into this world. I could have escaped them, but I did not."

I only laughed. "Your face and your entire body and even your fucking fëa will be covered with those by the time this is done." Turning, I began a leisurely gait out of the room. "Sleep well, atto."

That had been before the wedding. In the day, the wedding had come, the brightly shining sun ironic. It was designed after the Easterling manner—the ceremony and the oaths first, the lengthy feast next, and then the gifts. All the time there was the dancing and singing of traditional songs. The whole festival took up the entire day, and many people were often still dancing when night fell.

It was supposed to be a festival. Festivals were happy, joyful, a celebration, but we had turned it into something more of a sacrifice—how much of a pity it was to be altered such. I wondered what it would be like to marry the person you truly loved. But it was no use to think of that now. Tears could bring me no joy.

Insangar, the bridegroom, looped his arm around mine and laughed heartily almost every time someone spoke. He played his part well, though I noticed that he kept a respectful reserve to me, and I mused of what he had in mind, especially for tonight.

When it was time for the gift-giving, Mairon had acted in quite an interesting way, claiming that his wedding gift was not yet ready and he would need some time. Insangar laughed and excused it, but Mairon had already prepared two smaller gifts than what he had affirmed—a tallow candle and a bloodred ruby jewel. Even I found it amusing.

At this time I found out that Insangar had no living family members. His mother had passed away when he was young and his father had died fighting in some forgotten war when he was a mere boy. He scarcely remembered his mother and his father was a wisp of memory. I was to be his first taste of family in his life, which happened to be more amusing than Mairon's unstately gift.

That had been before night had fallen. Now Insangar was before me in his tent as I brewed him a hot cup of tea beside a wooden floor table on the ground. He watched me in silence as I tipped some tea leaves into the pot and stirred the steaming liquid. When it was completed, I wrapped a small cloth around the handle of the pot and poured it carefully into a small cup.

I set the pot down and offered it to him with both hands placed delicately on either side of the cup. "Please." I had spoken the word in his native Easterling tongue.

He accepted the cup with a slight inclination of his head and drank. The tea was quickly downed; the cup was small. He handed it back to me after a mere moment. I placed it back down on the table and made to pour another cup but he stayed my hand.

Insangar gestured. "Over there is a bottle of wine." However, then I did not know all those words, but when I saw a movement and recognized the word for wine, I knew what to do.

When I had retrieved the wine and was back at the table, he spoke again. "I did not know you spoke my tongue."

I continued to pour the wine. "I do not."

He smiled briefly. "You have an accent."

I did not know those words, so I said nothing and served him the wine.

"This is Noldorin wine," he told me when he had finished the cup.

"I recognized it," I said.

Insangar smiled again. "Have some for yourself."

I poured a cup for myself and tipped it into my mouth, feeling the tingle of the wine in my face. After setting the cup down, I lifted my eyes to his and studied the man I had just been married to. Like most the other Easterlings, he had a burly build, dark fierce eyes, and brown hair braided half up, half down, entwined with golden bands. His hands were seemingly gentle as he accepted the dainty cups that I presented to him, the fingers almost like the wings of birds.

"How loyal are you to duty, my lord?" I murmured.

He took my hands in his own. "Extremely."

"I suppose I must be too, then." I smiled weakly and leaned a little forward.

"Do you have your own sweet lover back home?" he asked.

The words made my smile bitter. "No." We said goodbye long ago. This shouldn't be so hard, should it?

The man before me that was now suddenly my husband took me in his arms and drew his face close to mine. "That is good."

I drew in a shuddering breath and felt the warmth of his breath upon my skin, wanting to run far from here but knowing I had chosen and that I must honor my choice. My silver diaphanous dress had fallen a little off my shoulders and his mouth caressed my neck, my face, and finally my lips. And as the cold moon glared over me, I found that a fugitive tear had tumbled down my face. I did not know I could still tremble as Hrysívë.

Keep on walking, and don't you dare fall.


	41. Chapter II-IX

CHAPTER IX

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

"Half your officials are bought over by Lord Nestadren of Rhaendach, my lord," Annatar mused, his auburn hair shining as it caught the noonday sunlight. "I think the time has come to weaken their powers without delay. This cannot continue any longer. You know this."

"I do." Tyelpe kept his place by the window, staring distantly at the many-hued wildflowers in the garden.

"And if it does continue," Annatar went on, "and you do nothing, your position as Lord of Eregion will be usurped and stolen. Likely they will damn you to be a lifelong prisoner."

"Enough." Tyelpe held a hand up in chagrin. "I know of this. There is no need for you to repeat it before me." He turned and sauntered forward to Annatar but did not say any more.

"Forgive me, my lord, if I have nettled you." Annatar dipped his head in submissiveness.

Tyelpe ignored his words. "I will go to Rhaendach myself. No official will be able to properly settle this on their own."

"Please let me accompany you as your loyal advisor, my lord. I know some things about the Lord of Rhaendach that will aid you in bringing him down. Though they are trivial, they will be of great use now."

"Do as you will. Find all record papers concerning him and bring them to me. Tell the general to investigate any suspicious cases you find, but you must consult me first before you make a move. We will leave for Rhaendach as soon as we have any solid evidence."

Annatar bowed deeply, as if to hide the smile that had crept onto his lips. "As you command, my lord."

* * *

— _Atharys—_

"Aþārithīr yondonya."

Atharys sat up straighter, suddenly aware that he had been kneeling on the ground and waiting for Mairon to speak for a while; he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not realized so. "Yes?"

"Insangar's forces are now under our control," Mairon said.

"We have allied with them."

Mairon tilted his head down to look at Atharys. "You have more to say."

"They are not under our control. We have merely allied with them."

"Indeed. You have gotten less slow-witted, yondonya. What move do you suggest we make next?"

"I do not dare interfere with your motives, atto."

Mairon laughed. "All right then, if you must. I think dear Lord Insangar already knows what to do. Do you?"

"I believe I do."

"That is good," Mairon said. "I think I will be gone from Morinórë for a while. They have become more suspicious of me in Eregion. . .have you done as I asked?"

Atharys gave a sharp nod. "Yes, my lord. The orcs have been sent."

"Let us hope the news come soon to Ost-in-Edhil, then. In my stead you will rule, Aþārithīr. I trust that you know what is best for us all. We are in a perilous situation now. You must watch over everything and be sure reports come to me."

"Shall I give the order, then?" Atharys inquired.

"Ah. No." Mairon went over to his desk. "I have a much better way of doing this." Delicately, he slipped his calligraphy pen into his fingers and began to write on a strip of parchment paper. Atharys watched him carefully write a mere two lines on the paper, fold it, slip it in an envelope, and hand it to him. "Bring this to Lord Insangar. You are not to be seen."

Atharys bowed. "As you command, my lord."

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

"I look. . ." Rhystórë frowned at himself in the looking-glass, Khalentharia held up for him. She had covered her smile with a fan and when Rhystórë whirled around, she immediately put on an exasperated face.

"Strange only to yourself," Khalentharia retorted. She slapped the looking-glass into his hands and crossed her arms. "It is made after the fashion of the Wainriders. This is the pride of my people. You should be proud you have the honor to dress as such. In my opinion, you look better in this than in your Númenórean garb. Though your face—I should paint your face. Do you like how I did your hair?"

Rhystórë batted her hand away. "Don't you dare."

Khalentharia sighed. "Insangar has just wed that woman Hrysívë, Lord Mairon's first child. My brother wanted to give you to him as a wedding gift, but I wouldn't allow it. Suffer this costume and you gain your life. Isn't that a spectacular deal?"

"Did he want me to be his little informer or did he want to get rid of me for good?" A sardonic smile played at his lips.

"A little bit of both," Khalentharia admitted. "My brother is. . .like that. He plays the game in the most efficient way."

"I cannot wait to meet him." Rhystórë sighed, his words dripping sarcasm. "He must be a very kind man."

She punched him playfully. "Don't make fun, Númenórean."

As she strode out of the tent, Rhystórë had no choice but to follow. "I can do what I want."

"Not if you want your tongue torn off." Khalentharia opened her mouth to say more but a group of Wainriders on horses rode up to them, led by a big burly man who, even when he leapt off his horse and stood before her, towered at least a foot above her. Nonetheless, she narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin, studying him. "Aratan."

"Lady Khalentharia," the one called Aratan greeted her. "How do you do?"

"Brilliant," she said, evidently impatient.

Aratan seemed to find no other words to say and jerked his chin to Rhystórë. "Who is this one?"

"An old friend of mine," Khalentharia told him. "The Grand Chieftain Khamûl has permitted him to reside with the Great Tribe."

"Ah, I see," Aratan said. "And what may his name be?"

She responded faster than Rhystórë could think. "Ëaruilë."

Rhystórë sputtered at the name (it meant 'seaweed'), but Khalentharia dismissed him. "Forgive this one, he seems to not know how to speak at times. Quite a slow-witted one, if you ask me. He would always be punished for his foolishness when we were children, yes, I remember. And yet this still happens and he is all grown up. I wonder if he will ever grow out of his doltishness."

Aratan chuckled. "Oh, that is good."

Her brown braid whipped over her shoulder as she turned sharply to face him. "Are you going to ask for my hand again?"

"Yes, my lady." Aratan spoke without hesitation. "My father has already approved of it, and I'm sure your brother the Grand Chieftain will do likewise—"

"Have you forgotten so quickly?" Khalentharia glanced lazily at him. "If you want me, you will first have to defeat me in a match."

"I did not forget. Khalentharia—"

She ignored him and turned to the rest of the men that had gathered up to them. "Who wants to go first?"

A nineteen-year-old boy sprang off his horse and pumped his spear in the air. "I will."

Khalentharia licked her lips and smiled. "Delicious. Get out of my way, all of you."

She drew her bone sword and shifted into her stance as the men murmured with anticipation and backed off. They formed a ring around them as Aratan pursed his lips and crossed his arms. Catching Rhystórë's eye, Khalentharia smiled knowingly. He bit his tongue and turned away only to find Aratan glaring at him. Sighing in exasperation, Rhystórë peeled his gaze back to the two circling Wainriders, one hissing and the other gritting his teeth.

At last the boy wearied of the delay and leapt forward, lashing his spear at her so quickly that Rhystórë flinched. Khalentharia darted aside, fast as an adder snake, and there was a blurred movement, then suddenly the boy was on the ground, groaning and disarmed with her bone sword at his throat.

"Who's next?" Khalentharia shouted as the boy crawled away, complaining that he had recently taken a cold a few days ago.

Another man shoved his way forward, twirling a machete in his fingers. "I don't believe a woman can defeat one the likes of me."

Khalentharia laughed. "We'll see about that, won't we?"

The man scarcely let her finish her sentence before charging at her like a bull. She sprang lightly aside, as the first, and as he was recovering himself, did a few twisting turns in the air merely to flaunt her abilities and, perhaps, daunt her opponent. He growled and came again, yet still they had only exchanged a few blows before he was on the ground, dust flying around his face.

Rhystórë watched as she defeated man after man, each grumbling and groaning and scarred with bruises as they left. Aratan went too, eventually, and was soundly overcame. Khalentharia made a point of humiliating him so as to have him not come back and ask to wed her, Rhystórë supposed. He himself did not foolishly go up there and challenge her to a battle, perhaps to prove to her that he was not as doltish as she said him to be. It brought him enough content to watch big men fall by her kicks.

When they had finally recognized her independence and let her alone, evenfall had come. The men dispersed, grumbling complaints, and Khalentharia approached Rhystórë, smiling broadly.

"Why didn't you challenge me?" she demanded. "I wanted to make you fall on your ass, Númenórean."

Rhystórë snorted but did not answer, turning to the setting sun.

Khalentharia made a show of surprised realization. "Oh, I know why—you want to prove that you are better than the other men. Isn't that so?" She nudged him on the shoulder, insisting on an answer. "Isn't it?"

"No," Rhystórë said, reddening. "No, I would have won and embarrassed you. I didn't want to embarass you."

Khalentharia laughed, poking him. "You, Númenórean. . ." She howled with laughter. "You are _exceedingly_ terrible at lying. Exceedingly."

That irritated him. "No, I'm not. Where do they serve the food? It seems to be that I get hungry when I watch a woman beat up a flock of men."

"I thought you would have been able to find food on your own. Don't you have a nose? You need only follow your nose. . ."

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

He did not feel the cold although the wind whipped his hair into his face and sent the rest of the company shivering back to their tents. Naturally, he kept the night watch; he was too restless for sleep anyhow. It seemed to him that there was some other perilous energy out there lurking in the dark where they could not see. The leaves rustled on their worn boughs, an occasional animal darted through the brush, and night creatures hooted and chirped. It was so close, yet just hiding out of reach. . .

Curling his fingers around his sword hilt, he found himself content to stand in vigilance over the hill and watch the silent camp sleep. It was a peaceful, calming sight; scarcely anything moved saved at the will of the wind, and Elbereth's stars hung from above like lovely little trinkets. Tilting his chin up to gaze at them, he smiled at their tranquil beauty and thought of the memories he stored in them from long ago. He hoped the stars would never die, for if they did, he feared that those memories he kept would die along with them.

He heard Elerondo trudge up the hill to stand beside him. "We have travelled far today," Glorfindel said. "You should be resting."

"Then so should you," Elerondo replied.

Glorfindel managed a tenuous smile. "I remember now. I seem to have forgotten to tell you that, after my fall in Gondolin, the Valar granted me power similar to that of a Maia."

"Did they?" Elerondo was evidently incredulous, even though he tried to hide it. "Then something must truly be wrong here in Endórë for them to do that."

Glorfindel gave a slight nod, but said nothing.

"Did it hurt?" he asked.

"What?" Glorfindel was confused by the question.

"When they thrust the power within you," Elerondo said. "Did it hurt?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But I try not to remember that."

Elerondo was suddenly intrigued in the topic. "Did dying hurt?"

Glorfindel frowned. "Only when I was alive."

"What does that mean?"

Suddenly Glorfindel went motionless, his eyes unfocusing. Something was pulsing within the ósanwë, some peril—

Elerondo might have said something, but Glorfindel did not hear. " _Down."_ He seized the younger ellon by the shoulders and hauled him down just as an arrow flew overhead where he had been.

"What—" Elerondo was gasping for air.

"Go. Wake the others. Orc attack."

"There hasn't been an orc attack in years—"

"There is _now,"_ Glorfindel snarled. "Go! Before you lose your head."

Elerondo was gone before Glorfindel had been turned back to the approaching orcs. It was true; there hadn't been any orc attacks since the First Age, save a scant few, but he had seen the arrow clearly. The times were changing.

By the time the others had gotten on their feet and formed a circle to fend off the orcs, Glorfindel had already killed twenty. He had not fought so freely since he had been granted this new hröa—not since Gondolin. It felt as if there was a great fire burning through his veins, driving him on like how a master's whip drives an ox. The power he wielded thrummed through his body and made his skin tingle, a feeling that he savored and desired more and more of. Now could he understand what Híthriel had been speaking of all those times she had told him about that _power._ Though his nose was full of the scent of blood and death, he breathed it in, feeling as if he would never tire, and when he breathed out, orcs lay dead before his feet.

They died too quickly for his satisfaction, nonetheless, and when he headed back over the hill he saw Elerondo with his dagger at one of their throats.

"A pusta!" he commanded.

Elerondo lifted his head, the orc snarling and spitting blood.

"Take a few captive. There are questions that need to be answered."

Then he headed down the hill, blood dripping from his fingers as he clenched them into a fist.

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _A pusta._ (Q) Stop/halt.

 _Yondonya._ (Q) My son.

 _Hröa._ (Q) Physical body.

 _Ëaruilë._ (Q) Seaweed.


	42. Chapter II-X

CHAPTER X

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

Insangar was gone by the time I had awoken the second time that morning, a fortnight after the wedding. I was sore when I climbed out of bed, but still dressed quickly, donning my usual Easterling garb and slipping my cloak over my shoulders. Eressë came in to do my hair moments after I had finished dressing, her own hair bound tightly in a bun. I washed my face in the silver dish as she prepared, then let her comb her fingers through my hair. As she was tucking in the last strand, I could see her, in the looking-glass, bend forward and lean into my ear.

"I suggest you close your eyes and imagine it is someone else," she whispered.

I stood and turned to her. "Please have the others mount the wagon with you, Eressë. We will be leaving shortly."

Eressë bowed stiffly. "Yes, Your Highness."

I did not wait to see if she had obeyed before striding out the tent to meet the rising sun. All throughout the field tents were being collected and thrown onto the moving platform pulled by horses and oxen. The Grand Chieftain's tent itself was already attached to a row of oxen, Eressë standing beside them with her eyes fixed on me. Wainriders were leaping on neighing horses, their squires dousing the fires, and the field filled with the thumping of the horses' hooves.

"Your Highness." Khamûl had come up to stand next to me.

I inclined my head. "Lord Khamûl."

"We ride to war," he said.

"Not to war, but the butchery," I murmured, then went on without waiting for a response. "I made you strong, Lord Khamûl. Don't you forget that." Without another word, I strode away from him and came before Insangar, who had only been standing a few yards away.

"Is our dear Lord Khamûl bothering you, love?" he asked, stroking my hair.

"Hm? Surely he would never even attempt to bother me," I drawled as Khamûl scowled, marching away.

Insangar handed my horse's reins to me as the mare snorted and pawed the grass. "That is good."

I smiled as I stroked the mare's neck. "Did I ever tell you that Eldalië ride bareback?"

He turned to look into my eyes. "Do you want me to take the saddle off?"

"No," I told him. "I want to ride like a Wainrider. Go now. It is your time to lead your people once more."

Insangar nodded and leapt upon his own horse, a great stallion that could scarcely be controlled by any other. "Ride beside me, Your Highness," he said, extending a hand.

I climbed atop my mare and shifted my cloak upon my shoulders. "It would be an honor."

Insangar kicked his stallion and rode to the front of the host, leaving only dust behind him. He punched a fist into the air, shouting commands as the Wainriders echoed the words. I rode forward, leading the host beside him. There were numerous distinct tribes throughout the domain of Morinórë, some wandering, some enduring life in the same lands. They would now either yield and serve under the Great Chieftain of the Wainriders, or be killed.

I scoffed at the thought. _Survival of the fittest. Kill, or be killed._

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

Even with them both ahorse, Lord Nínquë had to bend down to Norkáwen to speak to her. He leaned in close to her face as she stared directly forward at the city of Amon Lanc, Eryn Galen's capital, they gradually approached. She had never been there; the host had been called to Hithaeglir and she captured by the Easterlings amidst the battle as her uncle Oropher had left Lindon in search of a new land. This Eryn Galen was the new land he had founded—this realm where he ruled as King of the Sindar.

"Do you remember what I taught you?" he inquired.

Norkáwen nodded.

"Good. . .Norkáwen?"

She turned, awaiting his command.

"Do you still not remember your name?"

At the words, she looked away.

Nínquë settled back on his horse, gazing ahead at the city. "That is all right. You will remember in time."

He kept telling her that, but she did not want to remember—no, that was something she _could not_ remember. This child was only a little slave girl now, servant of the generous Lord of Gifts, and her name was Norkáwen. There was a past, a history that she had forgotten, that she did not care to remember.

They had ridden another half a league towards the city when Nínquë halted. "I can follow you no more from this point. You must continue on alone."

Norkáwen nodded dutifully and kicked her horse's sides, spurring him on.

"Send the horse back when you reach the gates," Nínquë called after her as she rode off.

She made no response; the speed in which her horse was galloping at made her feel a certain sensation that she thought beautiful yet peculiar and dangerous. The wind rushed against her, pelting her face and making her hair swirl out behind her—what was the word. . . _freedom._ Riding made her feel free for the first time she had been Norkáwen. She shook the thought out of her head, as she dared not think these things.

When she dismounted her horse, her hair was tangled and matted with sweat. She hadn't realized that these thoughts she dared not think had made her so nervous. The horse galloped off into the undergrowth after a pat on the neck, and she was left alone amidst a knot of trees. She stared at the flora's beauty for a moment, then continued the rest of the way to the gates on foot.

The gates were, in fact, scarcely guarded. Villagers went to and fro on horses and on wagons, and the pair on guards standing before the city hardly bothered to check the contents of those wagons. This, propitiously, gave Norkáwen a chance to hide herself in one of the wagons; she thought it would have been more complicated to get past the gates if she posed as an orphan child seeking shelter.

The wagon only stopped once before it entered the city. She found a beneficial moment to spring out of it and landed on her feet upon the pavement like a cat. No one noticed a little girl like her as she stole away into the shadows of the city, staying close to the wall. Nonetheless, the marvels of the city amazed her, and she soon crept back to the markets and stood watching people walk as if she had never seen these things before.

She must have been standing there in the middle of the road because an ellon at a stand called out to her, munching on a stick of fresh celery.

"Are you from here?" the ellon inquired.

Nervous that she had been addressed, Norkáwen looked around for somewhere to hide, although she knew that when she was asked a question, she had to answer duly. She went cautiously to the stand.

"No, sir," she stammered.

"Hm," the ellon said. "That's too bad. Want a celery?" He held a fistful of them out to her and she recoiled in unjustified fear.

"N-no thank you—" But before she had finished her sentence, her instincts got the best of her and she ran off into the crowd, never looking back even when the ellon called out to her again. _People are not always what they seem,_ Nínquë had told her. _Trust no one._ She remembered those words, and kept them close to her heart. Perhaps the words would be of great use someday.

Norkáwen continued to stumble through the city, not quite knowing where she was going or what she was doing although she distantly remembered her task. Her mind reeled, blurring her vision, the ground seemed to lurch beneath her, and she could scarcely think straight. She found herself suddenly in the alley of a somewhat abandoned street, staring to the light in between the two structures surrounding her. A cat meowed and pawed at her feet, hissing, but she did not feel it, for two people had suddenly appeared in that crack of light—one a girl, only a little older than her, and the other an elleth. Norkáwen's eyes widened at the sight of them, as they were two people she distantly remembered. Perhaps she had seen them before, been friends with them before, but she did not know, she could not remember. . . _who were they?_

Then the light faded and the two forgotten friends passed the alleyway, not to be seen by Norkáwen again. The sun was setting in the west, flashing its golden light upon King's Tower, but she did see it. She fell upon the pavement, breathing heavily. Darkness wheeled overhead, and the girl in the alleyway passed out of consciousness.

When Norkáwen woke, the sky was still dark and she was alone. Though her head was pounding, everything eerily quiet, she began her duty.

* * *

— _Oropher—_

Oropher had been standing at his balcony for a long while now; he felt something odd in the ósanwë pulsing around the city. It was the kind of feeling in which there was no evidence to prove your suspicious, yet you just knew that something had changed or something was wrong. Intuition—was that what it was called? Nobody ever believed it when some spoke of it. He wondered if it was Hînaeryn and looked to where she lived on the eastern side of the city. . .But the sun was setting in the west, casting the last light of day upon the tower, so he headed back into his chambers.

"Your Grace."

Oropher turned to the bowing messenger.

"Two envoys from Lindon have arrived at the gates."

"Tell them we meet in the council room. I will be there immediately," he said, striding out of the chamber.

Aelíndë appeared in the doorway, grasping his arm. "Oropher."

He wavered. "Yes?"

"Treat them well," she said. "Be sure to honor your promise."

Oropher turned away to the door. "I will."

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

Elerondo woke him early that morning, a few hours after midnight when the sky was still shrouded by dark clouds looming overhead. "You should come see for yourself," he only said before walking away.

Glorfindel dressed quickly and armed himself with his sword and a pair of hidden daggers before heading out into the night. The guards were not posted where they were bidden to be, having him hasten on all the fast. But when he entered the tent, all there was for him to find were three bodies on the ground, their limp forms covered by a long, bloodstained cloth.

"What happened here?" Glorfindel demanded, lifting the cloth slightly to see their faces—two hostages and one of their own.

"This ellon was seized with revenge and slaughtered all the hostages. When the guards found him, he confessed and drove a dagger through his own heart."

Glorfindel turned away. "Is that all?"

Elerondo gave him a sharp nod.

"Take this ellon's body and and burn it," he commanded. "Take whatever you can from the hostages and throw their bodies in the river." When the guards had taken their leave, Glorfindel turned to Elerondo. "This all seems suspicious."

"It is what we were all thinking," Elerondo said. "We were attacked by a party of orcs in the middle of Eriador, then when we kept hostages to be questioned, they happened to die before we could pry any answers out of them."

Glorfindel nodded slowly. "It seems that it was done to delay our arrival in Ost-in-Edhil."

"Do you think the ellon had anything to do with it?"

He sighed. "It is too late now. He is dead, and if you tilt your chin a little higher, you can smell his hröa burning."

"Then what are we to do?" Elerondo asked.

There was a brief silence. "Nothing," Glorfindel said, striding out of the tent. Elerondo followed with disquiet. "Except for hastening to Ost-in-Edhil with all our speed. Alert the others. We leave in a quarter of an hour."

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Ósanwë._ (Q) Interchange of thought.


	43. Chapter II-XI

CHAPTER XI

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

Tyelpe and Annatar's arrival in Rhaendach was greeted sumptuously yet not too much, as if Lord Nestadren was trying very hard to make sure they liked him. It was a city in Eregion a little north of the capital, Ost-in-Edhil, and one of the largest in the realm. Perhaps it was this city's great wealth that bought them that immense power that Annatar had convinced Tyelpe to question. Rhaendach stretched approximately twenty-nine leagues across and housed a hundred thousand people. Nestadren had great influence in Ost-in-Edhil's court; half of Tyelpe's officials had been bought over by him. Now, as Annatar had presented the evidence of this, Tyelpe knew that the time had come to weaken these growing powers in Rhaendach, for his position as High Lord of Eregion had to be kept and enforced.

Before Tyelpe had left Ost-in-Edhil, Églanim had requested to accompany him to Rhaendach, but he had refused. For one, it had been Églanim who had first discouraged him to make the move and eliminate Lord Nestadren from the game when Tyelpe knew he could wait no longer. He could not suffer injustice and unfairness in Eregion any longer—Annatar had proved to him Nestadren's crime of influencing people in the capital to turn against Artanis and drive her out of the city.

When the evidence had been presented to him, it could be nothing but right. Tyelpe remembered the time that Nestadren had come all the way to Ost-in-Edhil from Rhaendach just to criticize Artanis' rule. He had pretended to side with Nestadren so as to leech some information from him, but to no avail. Artanis had called him in directly after the confrontation, seething and angry, and by the time Tyelpe had the chance to look for Nestadren, he had left the capital in ire.

"Why has Lord Nestadren not come to greet us?" Annatar demanded of the escort. "We wish to speak with him in person."

"Lord Nestadren is currently occupied with a matter at hand," the escort told him. "He will meet with Lord Celebrimbor on the morrow."

Annatar was not convinced. "Tell him the High Lord commands—"

"Enough, Artano," Tyelpe said. "We can wait."

"Thank you for your patience, my lord," the escort said, bowing. "Your quarters are this way." He led them down the square then down a corridor.

It had not been long after Tyelpe had settled in his guest chambers that an insistent knock came at the door.

"Let him in," Tyelpe told the servants, for he knew it could be no one but Annatar, "then leave us."

The servants bowed and did as he ordered, and in a moment Annatar appeared in the doorway, arms crossed lazily across his chest.

"You have been impatient," Tyelpe observed. "Why the hurry? Have you not always taught me to be meticulous?"

"We all err." Annatar went over to the cabinets and produced a tall bottle of red wine. "It is only that victory is so near that I feel my fingertips are brushing against it."

Tyelpe laughed. "Of course." He received a glass of wine that Annatar had poured for him, and the silver ring they had crafted together glinted upon his finger. Annatar seemed to be delighted at the very sight of it.

"You do now clearly see Nestadren's intent, do you not?" Annatar sipped on his wine and stared out the window.

"How could I not?" Tyelpe murmured.

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

Rhystórë had not taken part in the morning's raid, but he knew some things about it that he would not have otherwise known if Khalentharia had not been so quiet since she returned. Some acted the much like her yet others were oblivious to it all—those that sat by them by the fire for the night's ration were all laughing and conversing loudly as if nothing at all had ever happened. Aratan, the one that had been consistently asking Khalentharia's hand in marriage, was aggressively tearing off chunks of meat, oil and fat dribbling down his mouth and into his beard. One of the others was telling a bawdy jape and slapping his fellow companions on the back as he laughed. It seemed to Rhystórë that they laughed after every sentence and took a swig of beer after every laugh. Unfortunately, he was still learning their tongue and understood very little of their japes—so little that he wondered if the japes were about him.

Khalentharia, however, was not eating at all and rather staring dismally into the crackling flames before her. Occasionally, when the fire burned low, she fed wood to the flames, but otherwise she scarcely moved. As always, her spear was strapped to her back, making Rhystórë wonder if she would attempt to skewer and roast him like the chunk of meat Aratan was gnawing on if he tried to encourage her to eat something. After some time, nonetheless, Rhystórë smothered his fear of being impaled, dipping a slice of bread in Easterling beer and offering it to her.

"You haven't eaten anything tonight," he said.

She shook her head. "No."

"You are nearly as stubborn as I am," Rhystórë observed. "This thing is already in my hand. What am I going to do with it if you do not eat it?" When she did not reply, he pressed on. "If you do not eat, Aratan is going to marry you."

At that her head snapped up. "No."

Rhystórë held the bread forward, beckoning her to it, but Khalentharia turned away, shaking her head. "No."

"Is that the only word you are willing to say?" he demanded.

She did not turn.

At last Rhystórë gave in and threw the bread, dripping beer, into her lap. Khalentharia barked a curse, seething, and threw it back at him.

"It is yours!" Rhystórë complained, throwing it back at her. He missed, however, and the bread flopped to the ground.

The rest of the Wainriders had noticed the commotion and laughed. "Acting like children and wasting food now, are you?" Aratan directed the words to Rhystórë for some reason, leaning in and giving him a very interesting look.

"You bitches. All of you." Khalentharia snatched the bread from the ground and tore off a large chunk of it with her teeth, gnawing on it fiercely. All the time until she finished, she cast annoyed scowls at Rhystórë that were somehow daunting, but he was not dismayed, and instead kept a smug smile on his face.

With the bread gone, Khalentharia wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and stood, marching away. Baffled at her sudden departure, Rhystórë hurried after her.

"Khalentharia—"

She swiveled around to glare daggers into his eyes. "I have a meeting with Insangar and Her Highness."

Rhystórë struggled for words. "Oh, I see."

"Go back there and have a pleasant night, Númenórean."

He found himself unable to say anything else other than words of compliance. "Aye, my lady. Yes. I will."

"Go," she said.

Rhystórë took a few skittish steps back. "Yes. Indeed."

Her hands shooed him away as if he was a fly. "Go." Then when he was far enough away, she turned upon her heel and strode away.

Rhystórë sighed and turned away, then looked back to make sure she was not still hiding there. She wasn't, so he made his way slowly back to the fire.

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

"Your name and your claim?" the guard at the gate of Ost-in-Edhil inquired.

"Glorfindel, Lord of the dead House of the Golden Flower, emissary of High King of the Noldor Gil-galad. This is Elrond, son of Eärendil, lieutenant of High King of the Noldor Gil-galad, and the rest here are our company."

"Lord Glorfindel?" the guard stammered. "My sister used to write poetry about you, w-when we were children. . ."

"Poetry?" Glorfindel muttered, then raised his head and turned back to the guard. "Do we have entrance?"

"Why—yes, indeed." The guard directed them down the corridor. "This way, if you please." He motioned for the other guards to lead the rest of the company in an alternate direction.

"We wish to speak with Lord Celebrimbor," Glorfindel told the guard. "It is an urgent matter."

The guard halted in his steps. "It seems then, you are out of luck, my lord. The Lord of Eregion has just left the capital for Rhaendach. We are not entirely sure when he will return."

"Indeed? That is very interesting. . ." Glorfindel was lost in thought for a moment.

"When did he leave?" Elerondo inquired.

"A day or two ago," the guard said. "Your quarters would be this way, my lord." He continued to lead them down the corridor, Glorfindel and Elerondo following.

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

The memory of the morning's raids was utterly enthralling in my mind. When they resisted, the flaming torch was dropped upon the arid ground, and the wind that came whistling through the village was merciless. Like a red flower, the fire spread, blossoming and ravenously eating up any flesh it could gouge upon. Even from the distance where we stood, watching, we could hear the screams and desperate pleas for life. . .but once you started a fire, it would never stop, not truly. You might smother it for a little while, yet sooner or later an ember would live again and perhaps a wind would come.

After the fire had diminished and the last flames had extinguished, we rode back to the village and stood before the survivors on horseback. Many of them had been weeping, the stronger ones tending the wounded, and when Insangar arrived atop his grey stallion, they stood and formed a protective circle around their young. They evidently did not expect it, but the Wainriders were merciful and gave them their lives, though they now swore allegiance to Insangar and Lord Mairon in the north.

Nonetheless, they still watched us with eyes of loathing and hatred as we passed. I knew they had to love their people, their leader, and their Princess, so I bade the lost half and sprang off my horse, approaching a child on the side of the street.

She was a little girl of eleven or twelve standing apart from all the other survivors of the fire, desolate, empty eyes turned directly at me. Mud caked her legs above the knee and her dress was ripped and bloody on one side though she seemed not to notice it. Her brown hair, matted with blood, sat limply upon her head and a large tuft had been wrenched off, leaving a patch of scraped, bleeding skin. She did not move even when I knelt before her to level her height, nor seem to notice my presence.

"What is your name?" I asked.

Still the girl refused to look at me. "Ethlénn," she said.

"That's a pretty name," I told her.

She did not reply.

I stood and turned to Khalentharia, the sister of Khamûl, standing near with her spear strapped to her back. "Give Ethlénn a bed and a warm meal. She is to receive the utmost care."

As Khalentharia stepped forward to the girl, I turned away and made to mount my horse though I pointedly delayed my steps. Suddenly there was a gasp and a woman's scream from somewhere, and I turned sharply around to find the girl Ethlénn on the ground, Khalentharia kneeling beside her. In a moment I was there, but the red stain upon her side was still spreading. Ethlénn lifted her dying eyes toward mine and held an unprecedented, fierce gaze full of hatred.

"Can you give me my mother back?" she whispered, and turned her face up to the grey sky. "The only thing I regret. . .is that the last face I see is _you."_

Then she drew in a forced breath, blood running out of the side of her mouth, and moved no more.

Her eyes were too disturbing so I bent forward and closed them softly, then stood.

"She was already a dead girl when we found her," Khalentharia said quietly.

My gaze passed over the onlooking survivors. "Make sure all of them are well fed. Their wounded are to be tended to." I sprang upon my horse as Khalentharia followed. "See that it is done." I kicked the mare and she trotted forward, the rest of the host following behind, Insangar at my side.

Yet now it was night, and it was in the morning that the girl called Ethlénn had died. Her death was something to be forgotten—the raid on the village had been necessary, and the memory of it would only hinder my ambitions. There were many more villages and cities and realms to be conquered in order for the objective to succeed.

I had been sitting alone in my tent's unlit gloom, but now Insangar emerged through the flap, holding aloft a glowing taper.

"Hrysívë," he said.

I glanced up.

"The others are coming in soon for a meeting," Insangar told me, taking a seat on the ground beside me.

"What do you think of the matter?" I inquired. "Where is our next target?"

"There is another village a few leagues away from here where we make camp—it will be a moderate pillage, though it will likely require a battle and a few lives of our own, but very close by is a large city with strong reinforcements. It is a walled city, and their gates are strong. The others may fear a defeat if we turn to that direction first."

I urged him on. "What do you wish to do?"

"The village first, then the city," Insangar said. "I fear no defeat."

Carefully, I lit another taper and placed it upon a stand. "Whether a defeat is feared or not, I seem to have a conjecture and also perhaps an suggestion that, if carried out precisely, would be in our great favor."

* * *

 _A/n: I may have said this before, but I don't quite remember...the culture of the Wainriders/Easterlings are based off of the Middle Age Mongolian tribes and Khalentharia was inspired by Khutulun, a Mongol wrestler princess and descendent of Genghis Khan (1260-1306). History is amazing :)_

 _Also Hith is getting very annoying. I personally, absolutely hate her at this point. Please let me know what you think!_


	44. Chapter II-XII

CHAPTER XII

* * *

— _Atharys—_

There were not very many guards posted atop the gates, but those few that were there stood vigilant, with long spears in their hands, utterly still like grey stone statues flanking a great gate. Atharys himself preferred for the guards to be few, though they were scant for his father's taste. But perhaps that was only because tonight he found himself too restless to sleep and resolved, instead, to walk the gates alone and in silence, accompanied only by the stars. The guards were faceless under their armour, only iron, and if they heard they were deaf to words, never listening save only to orders. That was the beauty of these guards, yet also the folly of being. How imprudent his father was to make them so.

Quieted footsteps behind him disturbed the tranquility. "Your Highness. I am so fortunate to have found you."

Atharys did not need to turn nor feel the bonds of ósanwë to know that it was the Sinda Hestáryn, always asking for more. "What is it you want?"

"I wonder of your rationale behind asking me what I want. It seems to me you often do this first before saying anything else, Your Highness. I beg your pardon, but I meant no offense. This is a mere question that I would like to be answered."

"Oft times the question may be answered by observations." Atharys still had not turned from his place looking over the shadowed lands. "You might notice that these words are spoken by most you approach, including my father Mairon, High Lord of Morinórë. Those who do not speak these words are, perhaps, either fearful of your wrath or simply polite. Most cases, I would say, are the latter, for your power in the court is little."

Hestáryn seemed not to notice the insult. "Is that not the same thing? Being fearful and polite? Who is courteous without having a meticulous reason behind it?"

"Some people have a sense to be civil not only because they decided they were going to play nice today. What is your business tonight, Lord Hestáryn? Your games of delay do not amuse me."

"I am looking for Lord Mairon."

"Whatever you may tell him, you will tell me. I rule Morinórë in his stead." The words still sounded odd upon his tongue.

Hestáryn was evidently surprised. "Lord Mairon is. . .not here?"

"No. He has business elsewhere," Atharys said.

"And where may that be?" Hestáryn inquired.

"The deeds of the Lord of Morinórë are not of your concern."

"Ah," Hestáryn said, nodding and turning away for a slight moment. Atharys noted that movement and kept it in his mind. "Then I suppose I must report my concerns to you, Your Highness." He paused for a long while.

"Speak," Atharys commanded.

"As you bid, Your Highness. Since you seem to be short on time, I will state this directly. I feel that we have tarried too long to make a move against Gil-galad. Something should be done, and soon."

Atharys remained unmoved. "Why the sudden haste, Lord Hestáryn?"

"I suppose you know my story, Your Highness," Hestáryn said. "A former lord of Lindon, exiled for my so-called craving of _power_. What is 'power'? It is nothing to me, only a tool used to control the people. What use do I have of that? Gil-galad accused me wrongly—they all accused me wrongly, and Gil-galad condemned me to a fate in exile. You would understand, Your Highness, that I would like to seek my revenge, and soon."

"If you want to succeed in your ambition, tarrying is the best option as of late."

"But too many times have you said that You and your father. But you would know my situation, Your Highness. You are of similar age as I whereas all the rest of them are aged. You would know my haste, and my hate."

"Why would I?" Atharys said.

Hestáryn struggled for words. "As I have just stated, we are of similar age—"

"Think about what you are about to say, Lord Hestáryn, before you say it," Atharys advised. "It may benefit you more than you may think."

Hestáryn slammed a fist on the wall. "I need this, and _now."_

Atharys was amused by his imprudence. "You have forgotten to address me as _Your Highness,"_ was all he said.

It was a few long moments before Hestáryn regained his demeanour. He straightened and looked at Atharys dead in the eye, and though his words were courteous, they were laced with something much more beneath that. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I was rash."

"You were," Atharys said. "If you may leave me back to my watch, it would be greatly appreciated."

Hestáryn opened his mouth and closed it again, then turned away. "As you command, Your Highness. Have a pleasant night."

Atharys turned back to the silent city and watched the lights winking out beneath the tower, noting that Hestáryn had not yet left. "Is there a way we can compromise, Lord Hestáryn?"

"No," he said. "Unfortunately not."

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

I dropped to a knee before Insangar. "The village has been sacked, my lord. Its land and people are ours." Specks of blood garnished my face and body like red jewels. Though I had come from a battle, my hair was still bound flawlessly, as if I had had no trouble taking those lives I had, as if the revenge and anger that the villagers sought to satisfy did not even ruffle my disposition. A crazed look thrived in my eyes, the kind of look that sprouted in the rapture of battle.

Insangar stood slowly, triumph evident upon his face. "Excellent."

Gratification spilt into the smile that curved upon my lips.

"Now may you tell us that clever suggestion of yours that you spoke of only yesterday?" Insangar inquired as Khamûl and Khalentharia filed in the tent behind me.

"I know you are hasty, my lord," I began, "but this will require slightly more time than simply attacking a city."

"How long?" Khamûl demanded. "We cannot wait a year."

"No, not a year," I said. "A few days, perhaps. Five days if you desire it to be thorough." I drifted a little around the tent, stalling my answer. "Disease."

"Interesting," Insangar mused.

"I have already sent riders out to retrieve infected bodies from cities currently being affected by this epidemic. It is a highly infectious disease, and will kill quickly. Once enough die, they will surrender and become ours. At that time, I will heal them of the disease and our troops will expand."

They were all silent—Insangar nodding with pride and agreement, Khamûl seething that it was not he that had come up with the idea, Khalentharia not reacting at all and looking down.

"My riders should have already returned," I said. "I hope the catapults will function to good use."

"Very good." Insangar was already striding out of the tent. "It shall be done forthwith."

Khamûl snapped. "Stop right there."

The air was still. I could feel Khalentharia holding her breath. Insangar turned slowly to face Khamûl, polite anger frozen on his countenance.

"Yes, Lord Khamûl?" he said.

"That was no discussion." Khamûl stepped forward to level Insangar's face, though he was still shorter. I found it difficult to remember that he was only a boy of seventeen while Insangar was a man of thirty-five. "That was a mere receiving of orders. And may I remind you, Lord Insangar, that we have equal positions in the court of Morinórë?"

"You may," Insangar drawled, "but my lady wife is the Princess of Morinórë, daughter of Lord Mairon himself. Don't you remember that, Lord Khamûl?"

Khamûl turned his face slowly to stare at me. "Yes, I remember that, Lord Insangar."

I smiled. "Shall we proceed with the plan?"

Insangar did not care to see Khamûl's reaction before striding out of the tent. "Where is the tent, my lady?"

"Right along this way." I gestured in a direction and proceeded forward. "Ready the catapults," I told one of my men, "and have torches ready."

"As you command, Your Highness," the Wainrider said, bowing, and hastened away.

"I heard that the divide of men and women are less fair in your 'civilized' cities," Insangar mused as we walked. "They do not allow your women to learn to fight whereas all of us here are required to do the same."

"Quite true," I said. "Is it not interesting? They call Wainriders savages and even amidst all terrible deeds they work upon themselves."

"Very interesting," Insangar agreed.

At this time we had arrived at the tent. I jerked my chin to the guards as a command. "Is everything prepared?"

Firelight danced in the man's eyes. "Yes, Your Highness."

I turned to Insangar. "It is best you stay at a distance. These bodies are, in fact, highly infectious."

"You would know best of these matters," Insangar said, stepping back.

A long row of wooden trebuchets was lined up before us, each a massive fifteen feet tall. Fire gleamed upon the torches, ready to light the night into a flaming havoc. Every one had at least fifteen men flanking it, directing and executing its operations. When Insangar and I arrived, they halted what they had been doing and stood gazing to us, awaiting the order.

I raised a hand. Some creaked as they were readied, as the men dragged the propellers back. Then they waited, eyes glinting in the darkness. My own seemed to be gleaming like a cat's eyes might even engulfed in shadow—it was a mad desire that would not be quenched.

The shout came at last. " _Fire!"_

A dozen flaming things flew into the air, raining down upon the city like volcanic ash. They looked so beautiful in the night, like lanterns.

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

"I see you have heeded my advice," Annatar mused, stepping into Tyelpe's chamber.

 _How did he get in here?_ "I see you have heard of the invitation." Tyelpe hurriedly shoved a map beneath a book and looked up at Annatar.

"I have," Annatar said, walking to sand behind Tyelpe, who resolved to voice his concern.

"How did you get in here?" Tyelpe inquired. "I seem to remember there were guards posted at my door."

"They let me in," Annatar said. "Now may I ask what you may be planning on doing if Nestadren accepts this little dinner invitation of yours? Surely you would not dare to poison him, would you, my lord?"

Tyelpe, appalled, stood up sharply and faced Annatar. "You dare suggest that, Lord of Gifts?"

"It seems like I did, but that was a mere suggestion. You would not want to be charged with kinslaying, like your _father_ , isn't that right?"

"Watch your tone, Lord Annatar," Tyelpe warned. "For I doubt anyone would question a sudden disappearance of someone the likes of you."

Annatar laughed. "What are you saying, Lord Tyelpe? Think carefully."

"What is it _you_ are saying? What is it you want to tell me?" Tyelpe said. "Speak."

"Pardon my imprudence," Annatar murmured, "but if you do want to rid yourself of the Lord of Rhaendach, there are many stray bands of orcs that still wander the land, and their paths may be swayed."

In the west, the sun was setting. "I suppose I should ask him when his watch is, then."

"I suppose you should."

Tyelpe turned to Annatar. "Then I will leave this task to you, Lord of Gifts."

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

By morning, the city was a desolation. The night had been full of cries, but the morning was utterly silent. Smoke wafted from the city, surrounding its walls in choking fumes; it was so severe that even the Wainriders outside the walls had to cover their faces with cloths to lessen it, though it only helped some, not very much. What might have been worse was the mixed stench of the smoke and the bodies that resulted from the epidemic, along with piles of horseshit that no one bothered to bury. Throughout the night, Rhystórë saw them fling infected bodies outside the walls, but by that time it was already too late. Red sores formed on the victim's body, swelling until they filled with pus and burst, spilling yellow stuff all over. The end was painful and long; not many had died but all were suffering. At times the pain was so unbearable that victims took their own lives ere the sickness would take it for them.

Khalentharia had told him that it was the Princess of Morinórë, Hrysívë, that had proposed and carried out the gruesome plan. She herself had said nothing of the matter in their meeting; if she objected it would seem she was unfaithful to the Great Tribe and it would have all come to naught, anyhow, and thus the wisest decision was to stay quiet. She hated herself for that, though she knew it was the only thing she could do.

Rhystórë wondered about Hrysívë as he watched the smoke rise into the air. If he had surmised correctly, she was the sister—half-sister, more like, for she called herself Lord Mairon's bastard daughter—of Atharys, who had rescued him from the dungeons of Lond Daer the night ere his execution. If so, then perhaps he too owed her a debt. Immediately he loathed the thought and cast it out of his head, though it kept swimming back to him no matter how hard he tried to push it away. He could not be in debt to a monster the likes of this woman—this scheming murderer.

"Riders are coming from the city," Khalentharia said beside him. She had approached him from behind on horseback. "I am to go and meet them."

"I will go with you." Rhystórë readjusted his cloth around his face. "It would be too dangerous to go alone."

She smiled. "No, silly Númenórean. I must go alone." With no other words of comfort, she turned and bade her horse trot down the hill, towards the swiftly approaching riders in the ugly smoke of dawn.


	45. Chapter II-XIII

CHAPTER XIII

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

He left the note with the guards before Elerondo's door, hoping it would get to him before he made an impetuous move. At first he meant to give it to him personally, but the guards would not let him in, having him wonder whose guards they really were. There would be no problem if they saw the note, anyhow; it was written in a tongue that only Elerondo could decipher. When the guards had bowed, promising to present the note to Elerondo, he left for the stables and went riding south.

At midday, he dismounted to let his horse drink at the river. He plunged his canteen through the cold water though it was still mostly full and yet drank none of it. When his horse had drank his fill, he mounted up again and continued along his passage. As he rode, flakes of snow began to fall from the sky softly. For a moment he looked back to see the flakes drift down upon the red ilex trees of Eregion, and when he turned forward once more, he resolved to not look behind again.

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

Khalentharia knelt before me, planting her fist upon her palm and bowing her head in the Wainrider fashion. "Your Highness, the emissaries are here."

I turned, a regal and genteel movement, and studied the three men. They had mirrored Khalentharia's genuflection, yet as she rose, they remained as if they were prisoners. "Why do they kneel as such?" I said to Khalentharia.

"I beg your leave to speak, Your Highness," one of them on the ground said.

"Go on."

The emissary raised his head a little. "The people of Adlannaith are at your disposal, Your Highness. We are yours to command."

I pursed my lips in a smirk, letting out a short laugh. "I should hope so. No one in their right mind would refuse to surrender at this point."

The three emissaries stayed silent.

I turned to the second one that had not spoken. "You." Bending to my knees, I leaned forward to look into his face. "Tell me the truth." He was sweating, and starkly could not meet my eyes. Once it seemed that he realized the act was rude and dared a quick glance up. Regretting it, his eyes shot down to the ground once again. "Are there any disputes in the city on surrendering to the Grand Chieftain Insangar?"

Beads of sweat were dotted over his brow now. "Your Highness." He struggled to speak. "I—Adlannaith—"

I smiled and rose. "I hope you do know that I can taste a lie when I hear it."

In a seizure of desperation, the latter emissary frantically bowed deeper, gasping in breaths of air. "Please, Your Highness. Have mercy. I only mean to serve. Your Highness, please. Please."

I noted that the former emissary's brow was now also breaking in sweat, and the third emissary who had not spoken at all raised his head, eyes perilous as daggers. "Tell me, then."

"The people of Adlannaith beg for your mercy," the second emissary choked out. "The epidemic has affected all. Blood covers the streets without a battle, and people are dying—soldiers, women, children, the elderly. There is not one person who has lost nothing. But the Lord of Adlannaith is hardy and stubborn. Him and many of the fighting warriors of Adlannaith refuse to surrender. Even now they are planning an attack, an ambush to kill you, Your Highness. Please forgive me, Your Highness. Please. . ."

"And the three of you stole your way out of the city to treat with me," I said. "Interesting. Very interesting."

"Do you accept?" It was the third emissary, the one that had not yet spoken. When I looked at him, I found a rugged resilience in him beneath the beseeching eyes. There was no doubt he had lost a wife, a child, a father.

"Please have mercy, Your Highness. . ." the second one begged.

"It seems that Adlannaith has a very stalwart military," I observed. "Its soldiers are fierce and skilled, I have heard."

None of them commented on the remark and instead remained precisely where they were.

"The Grand Chieftain Insangar could use an army as such," I said. "How will you convince me that your soldiers will be willing to serve?"

"You would show your power and your mercy, Your Highness," the third emissary said. "Lady Khalentharia has told us that you are willing to heal our people of this epidemic. We pray that your power, inherited from the Lord of Morinórë, is great so as to wholly cure Adlannaith."

"Hm." I unsheathed the dagger at my belt and examined the luster of the blade. "How do I know this is not a ploy to diminish my power? How do I know the lord of Adlannaith will not turn his soldiers against me?"

"Your Highness—"

I cut him off with a flick of my hand. "Liars should be punished, don't you think?"

Not even the second emissary had the audacity to beg now.

I sauntered forward to the third emissary. He was kneeling in the middle of the two, and unlike his companions he stared straight forward into my eyes. That amused me—this man did not fear death. A pity that was.

Again I bent down to level his face, as if I was talking to a child. "Don't you think?"

He said nothing.

I held my dagger against my face, feeling the sharp iciness of the blade, then put it between my eyes and the third emissary's, the silver end pointing out. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" I grasped the hilt with my left hand, and there was a flash of silver and suddenly there was a dagger embedded in the throat of the first emissary.

His eyes widened in utter stupefaction and disbelief. Then as he looked down to verify that it was true, his eyes lolled back and he slumped over, choking upon his own blood. It was a few ugly moments as his body jerked before he drew his last breath and empty eyes stared up at nothing.

Even the first emissary was too much in shock to scream. I bent down to retrieve my dagger from the dead body and wiped the blood on his shoulder. "Tell the Lord of Adlannaith that I accept your terms. Your people will be cured as soon as I have his approval." I flicked a hand. "Go now. I expect they have noticed your absence."

The two remaining struggled to their feet and fear chased them out of the tent.

I turned to Khalentharia. "Take the body out, and call Insangar. We are going after them."

She was just as shocked as the emissaries from Adlannaith. "Y-your Highness?"

"You heard me. Do you really think the Lord of Adlannaith will surrender after one dead man?"

Khalentharia, too, was chased out of the room, but if it was by fear I did not know.

Insangar appeared in the tent only a few moments later, having been notified ahead of time that the emissaries had ridden from the city.

"Unfortunately, it seems you've missed the interrogation." I had turned so that my back was to him.

His brows were furrowed as he bent down to look at the body. "The dead man looks terrified. Can dead men look terrified?"

"Dead men can terrify the living, that much I know."

"Making decisions without me, my lady wife?" Insangar mused. "I have not yet met a woman so bold in my life."

"Then you should be thankful you met me, for it would have been too late, and you would be dead by now. We must leave at once."

"To treat with the Lord of Adlannaith? Did that not just a moment ago fail?"

"Evidently," I said. "Which is why we must make it right. We need the people of Adlannaith to be on our side and the warriors to obey. They must see our power."

"I would think they already have."

"Not enough. Come, we must go."

Yet as I made to leave, Insangar grasped my arm and drew me close. "If I were you, I would remember my place, _Your Highness_." The words were a ridicule.

"Hm," I murmured. "Go on."

His nails dug into my wrist. "You do not command me, you whoring slut. I am the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders and you are my wench. The Wainriders follow _my_ command, not yours, you must remember. All you will do, Your Highness, is strengthen my position in Morinórë's court by drawing breath and staying put. Do you understand?"

I pursed my lips, clenching my jaw. "Do I have your leave to speak, my lord husband?"

"Say as you will."

"The Lord of Adlannaith is coming to kill you and I right now." I prodded a finger at his chest to emphasize my point. "Will you do nothing?"

His face was flushed, and not from the cold. "Tell me."

It was a mere quarter of an hour later that we rode forward to Adlannaith, a small guard of a dozen men around us. Khamûl and Insangar rode in the center as Khalentharia and I rode on the outsides, respectively. The guards were lightly armed, as were we. It was necessary to do such—otherwise the Lord of Adlannaith may be offended. As swiftly as we rode, the gates opened, as if they had been expecting us and was treating a guest. Strictly speaking, we were their guests now, though perhaps not very much favored.

Adlannaith was a rich city; its walls were marble white and adorned with lion statues frozen in time. Most of them were roaring and fierce, their teeth bared. They were predators hunting prey to devour and savor their prize. I had heard from someone in the previous village that their culture was so warrior oriented that they bred together the strong and left the weak for the wolves. Those 'craven ones' that escaped fled to the village and lived to tell the story. Funny to think how they had been defeated so easily; perhaps even all the Wainriders could not have overcome them by force.

People flooded the gates as they crowded around, pushing and shoving, to see us. Most were women, the elderly, children, reaching out with groping, grime-stained hands for anything they could get their hands on—food, water, a cure. Yet there were not so many of these people, for when the old grew into too much of a nuisance to take care of they would be executed. It was law. Children were trained as soon as they could walk to be warriors, and even the women were required to learn the arts of warfare, though they mostly served as a support. Soldiers drove these people back, killing some even as they begged for mercy.

The Lord of Adlannaith was waiting at the crown of the white marble stairs leading to the throne room. Flanking him were two spears with two heads on them stuck on the ground—the presumed emissaries that he had not sent at all. He was adorned in black armour that glinted like obsidian jewels along with a scarlet cloak that billowed behind him in the gale, and his face so calm most would have never guessed the rage boiling beneath the mask. Looking into his eyes was like looking to the ocean; though the surface seemed tranquil and harmless, utter peril lurked beneath. There were sea monsters in the deep, prowling, hunting.

Insangar halted before the Lord of Adlannaith, planting his fist upon his palm yet not bowing his head. "It is a great pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard so much about you and your grand city."

"Well met to you likewise." The Lord of Adlannaith began a leisurely gait down the steps. "I have always wanted to meet the great Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders." He came to a halt before Insangar. "Well met."

Insangar smiled politely and cued me forward. I was not to speak. "This here is my lady wife, Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë and daughter of the High Lord Mairon himself. She is here to heal the people of Adlannaith of the epidemic, as one who possesses the power of a Maia."

It was no secret that the Lord of Adlannaith did not believe that there were such beings in the world called Maiar. "Ha," he said. "Let us see this necromancy then—let us see what gift the Lord of Morinórë brings us."

"Oh, but you must remember," Insangar murmured, "that this is a gift from me, the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, not from the Lord of Morinórë."

 _Careful words,_ I thought. _Careful words for careful schemes._

The Lord of Adlannaith did not answer to those words and merely stepped back, waiting for me to perform my task.

I chuckled at the foolishness of it all, drawing in a deep breath and tilting my head back. The gale swept through my hair and whistled through the falling leaves upon the trees. They were almost bare. I raised my arms, arching backwards, and at the same time my wings unfurled from my back. They beat forward and backward a few times, and the great force of the wind had the Lord of Adlannaith falling to the ground. Half a dozen—soldiers, advisors—rushed up to help him, but he slapped them away. _Good. Now I know who they are._

I mounted into the air, the soldiers standing by so astonished that they too stumbled to their knees. A silver mist was around me, along with a dark cloud outside of that, pulsing like a heartbeat. I drew in another breath of air, as I felt so utterly free. The task at hand was so daunting, but I embraced it wholly and breathed in the fëar. My hands crushed into fists though my eyes never blinked. The illusion was rising, rising—falling. . .

Then it was done, and I drifted gently back to the ground, my hands uplifted. I stepped forward to the Lord of Adlannaith, his eyes wide with shock, and suddenly his hands were clawing at his throat, fighting for air.

"You. . ." he choked out. He sunk to the ground, red sores sprouting all over his body. The same was happening to the soldiers around him—but only his trusted advisors, only the ones that were against me. His eyes bulged, laced with hatred, and blood trickled out of his mouth. " _Deceiver,_ " he rasped, and moved no more.

"A life for a life," I whispered.

The people of Adlannaith were healed of the epidemic, the illusion that I had planted upon them; they were healed by the lives of their lord and his guard.

I stood and turned to them. They were my people now—my soldiers.

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

Norkáwen slept in the grey alleyways of Amon Lanc, and every half a fortnight an informer of Nínquë's would come to her to bring her scant provisions. She had a cloak to sleep on and bread to sustain her—that was all she needed. A month had passed since she had first come to Eryn Galen and embarked on her task, a month since she had been away from Morinórë. Though in a way, it was freedom, it scarcely felt like it.

Yet this would all soon come to an end. Night was fast approaching, and the map Norkáwen held clenched in her fist was completed. She had learned the ways of the city, found their weaknesses. Morinórë was close to learning these weaknesses.

An alley cat brushed against her legs as she walked forward. Lord Nínquë's informer was standing there, waiting for her.

"It is finished," Norkáwen told him.

The informer gave a short nod.

In a day they arrived back in Morinórë. The tower of Lúmë-mindon loomed over her like a growling monster in a child's dreams. She ascended the stairs to Lord Nínquë's chambers, and when she found him, he was waiting for her in his gardens. Wordlessly, she handed the map to him and stepped back.

Lord Nínquë unfolded and studied the map. "Good," he said. "Very good." But he did nothing, and only stowed it in his cloak. "You may go back now."

Norkáwen turned away, meaning to go, yet suddenly there was a sharp gasp and the sound of silver steel. Nínquë's eyes were wide with astonishment as he looked down to the blade protruding out of his chest.

"Taeloth. . ." he whispered.

Then he fell, and behind him Lord Hestáryn emerged, scarlet dagger in his hand. He slipped the map out of Nínquë's cloak and smiled at her.

"Thank you, dearest sweetling."

Without another word, Hestáryn turned upon his heel and left.

Norkáwen stepped forward to the dying Nínquë but did not bend down. It was not until he rasped that word _Taeloth_ again and beckoned her to him that she did.

"Taeloth," he murmured. "Your name is Taeloth."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, with no words to say. _No, it is Norkáwen,_ she tried to tell him. _The other one is dead._

Nínquë's hands fumbled for something and she felt him press something cold into her palm. When she looked down, she found that it was a dagger.

"Kill him," Nínquë rasped. "For Eryn Galen."

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

The morning had come at last. Darkness had obscured the orc raid upon the borders of Rhaendach during the night so none had known until morning. Tyelpe himself rode through the mess, his horse being careful to not tread upon any of the guards' bodies. They were all littered together—the dead Noldor and the dead orcs—and some of the Eldalië had been so badly mutilated that they looked to be orcs. People of the city had gathered to see the ruin, a few guards keeping them back.

Tyelpe rode forward to where a crowd of inspectors were gathered, and when he dismounted, they parted to let him through. Lying upon the stone was the Lord of Rhaendach, Nestadren, dead. He had been stabbed cleanly through the chest, as if arranged. Tyelpe noted that Annatar was lingering behind, watching him closely.

"My lord, all of the orcs are dead," one of the remaining guards said. "To our great disfavor."

"Disfavor?" Tyelpe inquired.

"There are none alive to question. The entire attack was quite suspicious to begin with. Orcs have not attacked the Eldalië realms in years."

"Ah," Tyelpe said. "I agree. This is all very concerning. I command you to investigate thoroughly."

"Yes, my lord."

Tyelpe examined Nestadren's grey face a moment longer then rose and wandered over to Annatar, who was standing in a genteel manner with his hands behind his back. "Quite a spectacular job you've done. I trust you have not left behind any traces?"

"No, my lord," Annatar murmured. "None."

* * *

 _A/n: So._

 _Many people dead...and much character development..._

 _Please let me know what you think!_


	46. Chapter II-XIV

CHAPTER XIV

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

Only a few leaves, pale and leeched of their color, were left on the boughs of the autumn trees, fading to winter. How beautiful these silver boughs would be when the snow began to fall; they would be like steel words. And the grey world would fall to melancholy...I think, perhaps, that was a song I used to know.

As I breathed in, I felt someone stepping lightly upon the ground behind me and turned.

"Atharys," I said, surprised, as he emerged from behind a tree.

"Why, if it isn't my dear sister," he jested, and I noted that he did not use my name. "How do you do? It has been more than half a year since we last met."

"It has. I hadn't realized that." I turned to him. "Will you walk with me?"

"Absolutely!" Atharys looped his arm around mine like a child would and danced forward, making me laugh.

"Does Mairon know you're here?" I asked as we walked.

"No," he said cheerfully.

I raised my brow suspiciously. "Where is he?"

Atharys sighed, and when he spoke his words were clipped. "Not in Morinórë."

I narrowed my eyes. " _Where?"_

"Eregion. Rhaendach, specifically, I believe," he said. "You're about to scold me for how Mairon left me in charge but I abandoned the position to come here. I didn't. I left Nínquë in charge."

I laughed. "Is that so? Strictly speaking, that is still 'abandoning the position'."

Atharys thought for a moment. "All right then. That has some logic to it. What I meant to say is that I did not leave Morinórë unguarded."

"You never know," I said.

"Must you always destroy my musings?" Atharys demanded. "I would have preferred to have some peace and quiet without you."

"Pity you came all the way here."

"Indeed," he agreed. "How goes the conquest?"

"Well," I told him. "Very well. The army grows. Our father will be very pleased. Almost all of the wild lands of Morinórë are under our control."

Atharys clasped his hands together. "You certainly do impress me, dear sister. However did you do it?"

I punched him playfully. "Your genteel sarcasm annoys me."

"You'll have to suffer it, then." Atharys turned to me, his face suddenly solemn, though I could tell it had been on his mind for some time. "How is Insangar treating you?"

"Fine," I said. "All right."

He narrowed his eyes in a humorless demand. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing more that I expected. Though I appreciated that, after the consummation, he didn't try to force anything too much upon me."

Atharys was silent, and for a long moment there was only the sound of our feet padding slowly on the ground.

"Don't worry about me," I reassured him. "It'll only get you in more trouble if you do."

"I'm going to stay in the camp for a few days. I doubt he would dare do anything while I'm here." He paused in such a way that it seemed he was considering if he should speak or not as I stifled the urge to bark a sardonic laugh at his words. "I still don't understand why you had to do this."

A scornful smile curved onto my lips. "I know what I'm doing, Atharys."

"You mean to say you have something planned?"

"As always."

He glanced at the ground then back at me. "That really isn't true."

"What?"

"You don't always have a plan."

I laughed. "You haven't known me long enough to know that."

Atharys seemed somehow genuinely hurt by the words, and I was confused by the expression until I realized that as sister and brother, we were supposed to _know_ each other, but we didn't. I suppose that he, too, had wished for someone to be with him in his lonely childhood.

However, I decided not to tackle the matter and pretend I had not noticed. "Do you hear the wind? My older brother had always said the autumn wind sounded like someone was sighing."

"You had another brother?" Atharys asked incredulously.

"Ah," I said. "It's a long story."

"Won't I ever hear it?" He was impatient.

"Mm. Perhaps."

We had walked to the brink of a ridge that looked over the vast, beautiful terrain. Evergreen trees coated the mountainside, mist encircling the zenith of their boughs. At the foot of the ridge, I could faintly trace a stream twisting a path in the forest, running steadily over grey rocks. There was a lake too, silver and glistening, and when I peered in it I could see the reflection of the white clouds drifting overhead. I felt suddenly free to breathe these scents in, and in a guilty part of my heart I wondered if I had to do all that I was doing. _No._ My mind immediately fought back against the though. _You must. It is the only way._

Nonetheless, I closed my eyes and inhaled again, tilting my chin up. "I want to be free again."

"You can be," Atharys murmured.

I opened my eyes and gazed at the green. "Only for an hour."

"Hrysívë—"

"I don't like that name," I said suddenly.

"Hith," he began uncertainly.

"No," I said. "I don't like that either. Don't call me by a name. Call me your sister, and that I will be to you."

Atharys smiled a little. "Nésanya." That was the word for _my sister_ in Quenya.

I looked forward at the green again. I could be who I was again, yet only for an hour. _Don't lose yourself in your work, titta nettë,_ Findekáno had always told me when I was little. I scoffed to think that this was 'work'. Oh yes, it certainly was, but so different than what one might think. For a moment, I wondered what Findekáno was thinking of this in Mandos right now, then pushed my mind away from it.

 _So little time._ I let my wings unfurl from my back and stepped forward. "I'm sorry," I whispered to Atharys. "This is all a lie."

"It's all right," he said. His own wings had extended forth and he was staring directly ahead. "It's always been a lie."

* * *

— _Oropher—_

There had been no siege, no time to prepare, only an utter surprise. He had no notion of how they had snuck into the city so quietly, so subtly, silently killing the guards upon the walls in the night. A quarter of the city was in flames by the time the soldiers had assembled at his command and charged to defend the people of Eryn Galen. Oropher led them himself with his king's sword gleaming in the dawn, mounted upon a fierce white stallion.

It was an odd feeling, truly, leading his people into battle. The last battle he took part in was also his first, and it had not truly been a battle, but something more like a slaughter—the Second Kinslaying at Doriath. Still he found that he could not forget the way Hith had so heedlessly, indifferently killed those Noldor, though they were her own people. She claimed it hurt to kill them, but he could scarcely see it. And after the Second Kinslaying he had witnessed the Third Kinslaying then fled to Balar with the other refugees from Endórë. From the Isle, he watched the War of Wrath bring ruin to his homeland, watched the effects slowly tear everyone apart from the inside out.

Still after this, he felt green and inexperienced in the arts of leadership and war. He remembered Hinaeryn had often jested with him about becoming a king and taught him a little about being a leader. Though they had only been entertaining one another, he found those tactics helpful. Yet thinking of Hinaeryn made him feel ashamed; he was a married ellon now, and the King of Eryn Galen. He must be a good mentor for his people.

The orcs attacked from all sides of the city. They had all been shocked to find that the surviving orcs from the War of Wrath had managed to survive and regroup so relatively quickly, though it seemed there was someone else behind it all. The orcs were not a bright people, as the fruit of disfigured, tortured Eldalië first invented by Morgoth. A sudden fear crept into his mind—he wondered if it could it be that Morgoth had found his way out of the Void or that his lieutenant Sauron had escaped. Oropher couldn't quite recall what happened to Sauron after the War of Wrath, but he thought they had thrown him in Mandos...

He had killed in the Second Kinslaying—killed Curufin son of Fëanor himself, and then death had become a numb thing to him as he fought his way out of the capital where the violence was worst to the borders of Doriath. Now it seemed nearly the same, except he was not killing people of his own, though they could have been before.

To be a commander in a battle he had to shout. The orcs were streaming into the city like a swarm of fire ants, and flames in the near distance danced as a cloud of choking smoke gathered above the buildings. The blood that was coursing through his veins had him feeling that there was a raging fire living within him, driving him on and making his façades seem powerful and confident. Oropher raised his sword, shouted a command, and led his people to battle.

It was peculiar for him to find that his sword felt as if it weighed nothing. He did not feel the scant blows that his opponents dealt him nor the pain of death that he gave them. His stallion rode through all, trampled the orcs and kicked their spears aside. A fierce gleam came into his eyes as his sword arm rose and fell. None could stay him. He was a king, _the_ King of Eryn Galen.

The battle lasted until evendim. No, there was no orc army that could defeat Eryn Galen, Greenwood the Great, though it seemed that their leader that stayed back, commanding them, was not one of their kind. He was donned in all silver armor and his face was mostly veiled so they did not know who he was, but they all had suspicions.

Oropher stood over his city, watching the remainder of the orcs flee from the city as his soldiers butchered them where they stood. He was having one of those moments in which he was not quite processing what he saw, and nor was he thinking about anything in particular either. This trace was so strangely hypnotizing that he did not realize the orc pulling taut the string of a bow, the arrow pointed straight as his back.

That is, until Hinaeryn sprang forward, cutting the orc down and spilling his blood upon the pavement. Oropher turned to see her drive a jagged rock into the orc's head; she had no weapon but her wits and her hands. As the orc fell, she wrested the arrow from his bow and thrust it into his throat desperately, as if it was the last time she was draw breath.

"Hinaeryn—" Oropher dared an uncertain step forward.

Her eyes were hazel grey—he had almost forgotten the color. Yet now they were laced with such fear and anger integrated in one that he found himself not knowing what to think, what to say. Her hair was unkempt, her clothes tainted with dust, and specks of blood marked her wild countenance. To be seized with such dolor and fervor was no simple thing, for in those windows that were eyes, there was a tunnel that led down, down, deep down into a complex tangle. These were all fleeting feelings.

"They _took_ her. They took Narbeleth."

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

Rhystórë was donning his cloak when Khalentharia slipped into his tent, her brows furrowed, her eyes fierce, and her stance threatening. He had originally shared a tent with a few other Wainriders, but they had died in the assault upon Adlannaith; there had been a slight skirmish after the Princess' slaughter of the Lord of Adlannaith and his guard. When the camp was moved to the place in the mountains, he resolved to set up his own tent anyhow, as he preferred a place for himself, the solitude.

Khalentharia strode behind him, her hands on her hips, but Rhystórë did not turn. "That was ludicrous of you," he said.

"Ludicrous of everyone." Rhystórë grimaced at his tangled hair; it had almost reached the average Wainrider length. "Perhaps even more ludicrous than the others, because the other died and I didn't."

She barked a sharp laugh, throwing her head back. "If my brother saw you he would have framed you for treason. He will do anything. I know him."

"You are making this more than it is," Rhystórë snapped, annoyed now. "As you said, I am one of you now, a Wainrider. I have every right to act as a guard of Insangar." It was true; he had volunteered to accompany the envoy of Insangar and Hrysívë to Adlannaith. He was one of the half a dozen guards that had gone there and the only one that had come back alive.

Khalentharia turned away, scoffing and internally admitting her defeat, though her words were still defiant. "My brother could frame you because you did not die like the rest of the guard, Númenórean. He could say that you were helping Adlannaith, so they did not kill you."

"But he won't."

She crossed her arms. "That might be so. Unfortunately I would not be able to change anyone's mind if they decide to execute you. I surmise Insangar would love it, if he finds out who you are."

"The Princess? Would she not stop him?"

"She knows nothing of you, or of her father's plans," Khalentharia said. "And you have seen her, Númenórean. She would care nothing for another death." Her voice was scornful for good reason. "The Prince just arrived here this morning. Lord Atharys. The one that brought you here."

Rhystórë only uttered an ejaculated "Huh!"

"Don't go to him asking questions," Khalentharia went on. "None of us would appreciate it very much."

Rhystórë was about to retort of why her argument was fruitless when an indignant shout sounded outside, followed by a cry of pain. They exchanged a quick glance before hastening out of the tent, Khalentharia drawing her bone spear.

The Princess of Morinórë stood with her gilded boot pressed down on top of a man's throat. The man was evidently of Adlannaith, and as he struggled, she disarmed him on his knife and flicked it into her own hand, studying it. She seemed to scarcely notice that a circle of rebels that surrounded her, spears pointed within.

"How rude," she mused. "Trying to assassinate a princess. Do you deny it?"

The man on the ground shook his head wildly, fearing to speak. He glanced at his comrades then at the loyal Wainriders that had begun to gather around them.

Hrysívë turned to the rebels that were closing in around her. "Arms down, or he dies." She seized the Adlannaith man by the jowl and pressed his own knife to his throat, drawing beads of blood.

The rebels glanced desperately at each other, their eyes wide, indecisive, and terrified. Then at last one man let his spear fall to the ground, and the rest began to follow.

"Bind them," the Princess of Morinórë commanded. The Wainriders obeyed swiftly, but Rhystórë and Khalentharia did not move. Rhystórë could feel the indecision and hesitation within Khalentharia as she took half a step forward.

He grabbed her arm. "No," he whispered. "Don't go." _Something terrible will happen, we both know. Do you wish to take part in it?_

Khalentharia seemed to understand him and nodded slowly. Rhystórë silently breathed a strained sigh.

Hrysívë pushed the man forward to the others. "This one too."

When the rebels were all bound in a line, the Princess of Morinórë stepped back and studied all of their faces. There were fourteen of them, some men, some women, some teens, and she held their gazes, each one of them, but they all turned away.

"Don't you see?" the Princess of Morinórë said softly. "What liars, deceivers they are."

She stepped forward and dragged the knife brusquely across the first man's throat, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth, then the seventh...

Each time it happened, Rhystórë flinched and something in his heart felt heavier. Somehow, every death was synchronized with the flutter of his heartbeat. Blood roared in his ears. _Doom. Doom. Doom. Doom._

Fourteen heartbeats went by, and fourteen people lay dead.

The Princess of Morinórë turned slowly to her people, as if mourning. "Liars and deceivers will pay the price they deserve. I feel that everyone must know this, don't you think?"

* * *

Eldarin References:

 _Nésanya._ (Q) My sister.

 _Ellon._ (S) Male Elda.

 _Titta nettë._ (Q) Little sister.


	47. Chapter II-XV

CHAPTER XV

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

Tyelpe woke that morning with his blankets damp with sweat and his hair sticking to his brow. Was it from a dream? He did not know, and nor did he remember. The birds outside were silent and he could hear no sounds but his own wheezing breath. It unnerved him; after a brief moment of lying there, he heaved a wearied sigh and got up.

He wasn't at all sure of how he had dressed and bathed so quickly, but suddenly he was standing before a looking-glass in his privy, staring at his face. The stay in Rhaendach had been toilsome, and he was glad he was returning to Ost-in-Edhil later today, once his company was ready. Yet there was something else in his countenance, especially in his eyes, that did not reflect the kind of weariness that he was making an excuse of—something that is not smoothly confessed, with little hindrance.

Some time, longer than usual, was spent wrenching the tangles out of his unkempt hair. It was at this hour that one of his guards entered his chamber, bowing.

"The Lord of Gifts wishes to see you, my lord."

"Do not let him in," Tyelpe said. "Bar the doors."

The guard hesitated, looking down, then glancing up. It made no matter; Tyelpe was not watching him. "As you command, my lord."

Again Tyelpe sighed and threw his brush down, collapsing into his bed in the most unlordly way. He hoped one of his guards would not enter now, and even thought about barring his bedchamber. The outcome was worse, however, when he heard two pairs of feet approaching, one hurried and one smooth. It took him a while for his eyes to see Annatar's face, as all his hair was in his face.

"Lord Tyelpe does not wish you to enter..." The guard was panting like an exasperated dog. "Please, my Lord Annatar—"

Tyelpe waved the guard's words away. "Let it be. He has come nonetheless. Leave us."

The guard was perplexed. "Yes, my lord."

When the guard had bowed and left the room, Tyelpe glared at Annatar through the mess of his hair. "What do you want."

"I know what you want," Annatar said, sliding beside him. "Consolation."

Irked, Tyelpe jerked away. "Watch how you speak to your lord."

"Do advisors not advise? I am merely advising you."

"Unfortunately, it seems at this time I want no advice." Tyelpe stood and tried to find his formal garb, squinting beneath the clump that was his hair. "Did you take my cloak?"

"Which one?" Annatar asked innocently.

"The regal-looking one."

"Why would you want to wear that for a journey back home?" Annatar threw the cloak at him, and it landed with a heavy _plunk_ on the ground. "It was right here. You look monstrous when you do not comb your hair."

"I can't _see_ ," Tyelpe muttered angrily. "How dare you...how dare you speak of this."

Annatar pointedly noticed the stutter, though nonchalant. "After murdering the Lord of Rhaendach, do you mean?"

Tyelpe had his back to Annatar, but he felt himself begin to panic. It took all of his willpower to keep the shaking out of his voice. "As your High Lord, I command you to never speak of that again."

He could feel Annatar smiling that lazy, sly smile of his at his back. "As you wish."

Tyelpe snatched a letter off the oak chest by the window, fingers fumbling at the paper. "Give this to Cirthdain. He is to be Lord of Rhaendach."

"Hm," Annatar murmured as his eyes flicked over the letter. "Choosing a favored official now, are you?"

"Do not question me," Tyelpe said, turning away again. "And leave me. You were not welcome here even in the beginning."

"As my lord wishes." Annatar stood, about to saunter out of the chamber, when yet another guard came rushing into the room.

Tyelpe spun around angrily, though for no reason in particular. "What is it now? Speak!"

"My lord." The guard's eyes were darting around wildly. "Word has just come that—that Eryn Galen has been attacked—"

"Attacked?" Tyelpe inquired. "By whom?"

"A large band of orcs, though they were able to fend them off with bitter loss. They also say that the attack was led by someone not of the orkish kind, perhaps even an Elda of our own—"

"Is the King still alive? The King of Eryn Galen?"

"Yes, my lord. He is alive and unscathed, the letters say."

"The _letters_ say?" Annatar demanded. Tyelpe jumped; he had never seen Annatar angry before. "How can you trust the letters? Find out for yourself! What are you still standing there for? Go! Send out riders to find the real story and investigate thoroughly."

"Y-yes, my lord. It will be done straightaway." The informer scrambled out of the room as if he was a slave with his master's whip behind him.

Annatar exclaimed something indignantly in a tongue that Tyelpe did not know and threw his arms up in exasperation. "The lying whores."

"Have an elleth in Eryn Galen?" Tyelpe said coolly, watching his every move.

Annatar seemed to remember that Tyelpe was there and forced that cunning smile back on his lips, though it scarcely seemed convincing now. "Perhaps."

"Summon the others. We leave for Ost-in-Edhil in an hour, after the order is read."

Now Annatar seemed anxious to leave the room. "I shall."

Tyelpe put on an act of being unconcerned of the matter until Annatar had departed.

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

At the southernmost part of Eregion, the run-down village of Nindhras dwelt. It was a grey place, always cast in mist, and all the structures were grey, piss yellow, or bleached white. A leafless forest on the southwestern side and a jagged crag on the northeastern. Glorfindel stood on that crag now, gazing over at Nindhras, wondering if it was likely anyone would try to slit his throat in the night if he stayed in an inn.

He didn't know why, but his mind wandered to Hith as he mounted his hose. She probably would have said _fuck it_ and went anyway, so he did, for no reason in particular. It was amusing that everyone he thought of nowadays happened to be dead. The last time he saw a stream he remembered Ecthelion and his obsession with carving lavish fountains.

After he made his way down the crag, he found that the innkeep was too kind and jovial a person to live in such a place. He was offered a lowered price as a traveller and also because the innkeep claimed he looked wearied from his journey. Suspicious, Glorfindel paid him the full price and waved off the courtesies, treading up to his room.

An hour later, he emerged back to the common room, bathed and cleaned, and ordered from the innkeep a steaming hunk of bread fresh from the oven and a bowl of hot stew. It was dark and already raining outside; as Glorfindel settled in his seat, fierce-eyed ellyn and ellith stalked in, garling at him, rainwater dripping from their cloaks. He held their menacing stares until they smirked and turned away, but still he observed them, and their ways.

There was a particularly loquacious table of travellers in one corner of the room by the fireplace, talking tales of the tidings. Though the last thing he would have preferred to do at the moment was talk to someone, he knew that it was necessary for him to find signs and traces of stories he had to put together in order to figure out what was going on. Thus, after finishing his last spoonful of stew, he stood and sauntered forward to them.

"May I join you?" he said, sliding onto a wooden bench beside a raven-haired Noldorin elleth, the only space available. None of the others paid any heed to him save the elleth, who turned to him brusquely.

"Do what you like," she said. "It isn't as if anyone cares."

Glorfindel shrugged and turned to the conversation. It was a mere few moments later that the elleth leaned sideways toward him, as if whispering a secret.

"I saw you over there," she murmured. "You've been watching everyone."

"So what if I have? You have said yourself that no one cares."

She laughed. "Well spoken. Like any ale?"

He knew he had to show he was not afraid. "I don't see why not."

The elleth was trying to hide her smirk as she handed a mug to him. "Drink your fill. The girls like it when you do that."

Glorfindel chose not to reply to that and sipped at the ale, ignoring the elleth's japes as he craned his neck to hear the conversation.

"Wonder what. . .reaction. . .gets to Gil-galad. . ."

"What?" Glorfindel snapped, whipping his head to the elleth that had been shouting something in his ear.

She smiled, satisfied. "You want information."

"Is that not the goal of all here? You villainize me."

"Do I?" She batted her eyelashes innocently. "Of course one would in an inn like this. I know what you seek, and I can help you."

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes. "Why would you care to?"

The elleth leaned forward, resting her chin on his shoulder as he stiffened, and combed a hand through his hair. "I expect you have coin."

"Your attempts at seduction are fruitless. I am older than your father."

She laughed again. "You wouldn't know that, foolish boy. Is it a deal?"

 _Boy? Who does this elleth take me to be?_ "I do not trust your word."

"Of course you wouldn't. But I expect you do have spare coin you have no use of. Why not donate it to a poor girl on the street?"

"I have no spare coin. I am a traveller. Do you take me to be some rich lord from Lindon?"

She huffed. "Oh, well, that's a pity." Leaning closer to his face, she wound her arms around his neck. Glorfindel tried to politely push her away but to no avail, then decided to forget the courtesies.

"Get off of me," he snapped, standing up and striding back to his chambers. _Fuck getting information._ He was in the corridor leading to the steps when the elleth caught up to him.

"Don't you dare follow me to my bed," Glorfindel hissed, and she pouted. "I have no coin, so even if you try fucking me I won't be able to shit any out for you."

"But your hair is flaxen, like gold," she pressed on. "I know—"

"Damn you." Grasping her arm, he shoved a small pouch of coins in her hand. "Now tell me. What tidings do you have for me?" He would not let go until she told.

A mischievous, almost malicious smile curved onto her lips. She stood on her toes and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Eryn Galen has been assaulted on all sides by orcs, their gates penetrated. They say the king is unscathed, but the losses heavy. They do not know how an attack was planned so deliberately without anyone knowing. What do you say to that, Lord Glorfindel?"

He was shocked into silence by the tidings, and struggling to remain indifferent, he said, "You have mistaken me."

"I have not," she said simply.

"You have." Glorfindel glanced to the stairs and bowed curtly. "I am wearied. I am afraid I must retire for the night. Good night."

In fact, he did not retire for the night, and instead gathered his things, went to the stables, and rode off south.

He had to know.

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

The gag was so tautly bound it left trickles of blood running down the corners of her mouth. _I must look like a vampire,_ she mused as she fought against her urge to cry. _Do you remember the famous one, from the stories? Thuringwethil?_ She found her terror to be easier to cope with if she recounted the old tales to herself. _If I am one of them now, then I cannot be afraid._ Of course there was nothing to fear. She could not see in the blindfolded darkness of the wagon, but she could _feel_ that there was nothing there. Most would be more afraid of blindness when all there was was chains rattling, worn out wagon wheels bumping upon the rocky terrain, and the horses' neigh as their masters' whips chased after them. Nothing more.

She did not know how many days she had been there, but it had to have been a week at least. The wagon was huge, but more prisoners had been squeezed in them was fit. They had not seen the sun nor the moon since their capture; there were a mere few buckets in a corner for them to do their business if they had to. The place smelled worse than the stables when she forgot to clean them.

This intermittent start and stop continued for five more days, or at least she thought. At last the wagon came to a halt and did not move for a long time. Some grew restless and tried to break the wooden walls of the wagon but they only managed to bloody their wrists and ankles.

After hours, the door finally rolled open. Though it was evendim, the light pierced their eyes and they were caught off guard, for a moment, as the guards dragged the first of them out into the light and shouted, "On your feet! In a line!"

The obedient ones shuffled forward, cowering, and the rebellious ones that stubbornly refused to be moved were grappled and hanged.

The rest of the march to the dark tower was little remembered.

In the midst of the storm, Narbeleth found herself suddenly facing a girl that she distantly once remembered, once knew, that she had once presumed to be dead. She thought it had been a dream when she saw her in Amon Lanc, slipping about the walls and drawing odd signs on them, but now, suddenly, everything clicked into place—where she was, why she was here, how Eryn Galen had been ambushed.

She had never felt such utter rage or so betrayed. Hot tears spurted out of her eyes and ran down her face in ugly streams mixed with dirt and grime, and she raised a shaking finger to point at Taeloth.

" _You._ It was _you!"_

The silver-haired girl stared blankly at her. She did not know who she was.

Neither one of them knew who they were anymore.

Suddenly someone bent down to her, undid her chains from the rest of the prisoners, and gently took her to the side. She had not cared to look at his face until he kneeled down and lifted a tender hand to brush away her tears. Surprise as in her eyes as she looked up and saw that it was a Sinda, one of her own.

"My name is Lord Hestáryn." He spoke softly. "I need to know something from you." Then he paused and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

"Do you know how valuable you can be?"


	48. Chapter II-XVI

CHAPTER XVI

* * *

— _Norkáwen—_

" _Please forgive this one for her mistake and punish her in the name of Lord Mairon." Norkáwen held aloft the whip for him._

" _Put that down, little one," Nínquë had said. "What is your name?"_

" _Norkáwen, my lord."_

" _Your name before." Nínquë bent down to look at her face. "What was your name before?"_

 _She looked away. "Norkáwen does not remember, my lord."_

" _I'm sure you'll remember in time."_

But she did not, she did not want to—did not deserve to. Not after what she had done. _I could have run away, I could have pretended I was never Norkáwen and went home, I could have thrown myself in a river._

Norkáwen did not remember the Sindarin girl that had been taken prisoner of war to Lúmë-mindon and screamed at her those faults she had committed—those people she had killed, those people she had damned to hell. But perhaps that dead ghost of a girl within her remembered. Do the dead remember?

She was already half a girl dead. It wouldn't be much harder if the other half of her shattered to dust. She wondered if anyone would remember her when she died.

The river roared before her, raucous and merciless. It was fast-flowing, and there were many rocks; her death would be swift, and painless, she hoped. She took a step towards the edge of the crag, the wind howling in her ears. Or perhaps there was no wind, but rather just a screaming noise in her mind, only something within her. Perhaps outside her head everything was silent and still, no wind, no birds, no movement.

Her shoes felt restraining so she shook them off and stepped barefoot in the grass. She did not look back—would not. She had gone too far.

So she fell.

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

"Would you fancy a cup of _aeglos_ , Your Highness?" Insangar asked Atharys. "Fermented mare's milk, if you do not recall the term."

"I do recall," Atharys said, ignoring the subtle insult. "A small cup, if you please."

We were sitting outside at the table, the evening light dimming upon the light meal before us. The table was low and on the ground in the Wainrider fashion; we all sat on the grass, I beside Insangar and Atharys across from me. Khamûl and Khalentharia, and a few of Insangar's advisors were present also to honor the presence of the Prince of Morinórë.

A servant poured the _aeglos_ for him, and he nodded his thanks to both the servant and Insangar before he drank. It was a small cup; he finished in one downing and set the cup down delicately. Automatically, the servant poured another cup, and he did not object.

"It is good," Atharys said. It was evident he had decided that learning the Wainrider tongue would be exceedingly helpful.

Insangar smiled in politeness and gestured to me. "Have some for yourself, my lady wife."

I dipped my head and sipped a bit myself.

The courtesies took a while longer, stiff and awkward. Then Insangar waved the servant away and leaned forward.

"What brings you here, Your Highness?" Insangar asked. "Has there been any strife in the court?"

"No, nothing," Atharys said. "It was merely that I wanted to visit my dear sister."

"I can assure you that my wife is doing wonderfully by my side," Insangar told him breezily. "I am sure both you and Lord Mairon will be very delighted by the care I have given her."

"A wolf scarcely needs the care of others, for she can fend for herself."

I gave Atharys a warning look, though Insangar seemed not to notice.

"Your Highness," Khamûl cut in. "I assume you have heard of the massive extent of the army we have assembled for Morinórë. Harad and the lands south have been conquered and under the control of Lord Mairon. I hope you will tell him of these tidings and the great accomplishment we have achieved."

Insangar laughed. "Is it gold you want, boy? We all know the Lord of Gifts was much too penniless to even pay us more than Princess Hrysívë."

Khamûl bristled as Atharys stiffened.

"Careful of your words on my sister, Chieftain," Atharys drawled, "or perhaps the truth may be proven."

"That's enough, Atharys," I said. "There is no need for strife this evening. We have come together for a meal, and that it shall be."

Atharys' jaw was clenched, but said nothing more.

Khalentharia broke the silence. "How does Lord Mairon fare? Surely he would have more orders for us at this time. We have fulfilled his command wholly."

"He has none," Atharys said, pointedly leaving out the fact that Mairon was in Eregion. They waited for him to say more, but he merely bored his eyes into Insangar's, threatening.

A guard approached and bowed, fists joined together in the Wainrider fashion. He turned to Atharys. "Your Highness, a rider comes seeking you."

"Bring him here," Atharys said. "My friends are his friends."

The guard hesitated, glancing down for a moment. "He says he would like to speak to you alone. You and the Princess."

That interested him. "Very well. Take us to him."

Atharys and I stood, the others watching us carefully, and the guard led the way.

Neither of us knew the rider when he revealed his face, but he was clearly a messenger from Lúmë-mindon.

"Your Highnesses," he said, dropping to a knee, "it is a pleasure to be before you."

"You may rise." Atharys studied the rider, noting every detail. "What tidings do you bring for us?"

"Lord Mairon commands for the Prince's return to Lúmë-mindon immediately. There has been a slight revolt in the court."

"Revolt?" Atharys demanded. "By whom?"

"Lord Hestáryn," the rider said. "The evidence is peculiar, but we are quite convinced that it was he who killed Lord Nínquë, taken the map of Eryn Galen, and stormed the capital, Amon Lanc."

"He took the capital?" Atharys was incredulous.

"No. He failed, but returned with wagons of prisoners. Lord Mairon is quite. . .angered by his decision."

I chuckled. "I would expect so." It was the first time I had spoken, and the rider seemed to be surprised. He turned to me and lowered his eyes a little.

"Your Highness," he began, "Lord Mairon wishes for you to stay with your lord husband."

I smiled, for I had expected the words. "Ah, yes. Thank you for your honesty." Turning to Atharys, I inclined my head slightly. "You best be going, Your Highness. The hour grows late."

"Yes, certainly." Atharys glanced at the rider. "If I may have a word with you before I leave?"

The rider, catching the incentive, bowed and departed.

Atharys turned to me. "Hestáryn. I should have known. He came to me one night, as I was patrolling the borders, speaking of his restlessness."

"And I expect you told him to deal with it?"

"I did," he said. "What else was I to do? His arguments are futile and senseless."

"They are," I agreed, "but perhaps his revolt may be to our benefit."

He did not understand. "How so?"

I smiled again, though it was more of a curve of my lips. "You will see, and though I will not, I will know."

Atharys looked warily at me. "I would prefer you tell me."

"I would not," I said. "Go on now. You would not want to keep our father waiting."

* * *

— _Oropher—_

 _Simply Lord Oropher doesn't suit you. It's King Oropher. The Sindar must be united under one king. We need your leadership, meleth nín. Take the role and play it well._ Hinaeryn had spoken those words to him at Amon Lanc's foundation. _No i brestanneth anírach tírad vi amar. Estelio nin._ Be the change you wish to see in the world. Trust me.

Indeed, she had spoken these words, but did she trust him? Did his people trust him to play his role well? If anyone answered yes now, they would be fools. He let his city be pillaged and plundered. He let his people die, and he did not know of the intrusion until it was nearly too late. It was true the orcs had been fended off, but it said nothing to justify the fact that so many had been taken or killed.

A guard came before him and bent to one knee. "Your Grace."

"How many are missing?" Oropher said.

"Five hundred as of now, Your Grace," the guard told him. "The scouts that followed found that prisoners were taken in wagons."

Oropher fought to keep his voice calm, yet it sounded more forced and threatening than anything. "To where?"

"We do not yet know. The scouts were following, but they were found and killed. One escaped back alive to tell the tale."

"Thank you for the report. You may now go, unless there is anything more you have to say."

The guard hesitated. "An elleth who calls herself Hinaeryn waits at the door. She wishes to see you, Your Grace."

Oropher's voice was toneless. "Let her in. And leave us."

"As you command." The guard bowed and departed.

A mere moment later Hinaeryn strode into the chamber, her hazel eyes distraught.

"I heard the report," she said.

Oropher had turned to the window so he would not have to meet her eyes, see her face."I would think so."

She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He refused to speak. "You were going to ask me what I was doing here."

"I was," he said quietly.

"My husband is dead," Hinaeryn told him. "He is dead, and Narbeleth gone. Your city, my city is in ruins."

He said nothing.

"I came to tell you farewell. I am going to find Narbeleth."

His eyes widened, and he spun around. "You _cannot_ —"

"Who are you to command me?" she said. "Ah yes. My king. Do command me to stay. Do command me to stay here, safe, by your side in the capital. Do command me to neglect my duties and stay here, languid, forgetting that my niece _ever existed_."

Oropher scarcely noticed the tears tumbling down his face, but he understood, and spoke no words.

Hinaeryn smiled, warmly, upon comprehending his understanding. "Meleth nín," she murmured. "We will all die, in time."

That was all. Then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek and left.

"Hinaeryn. . ." he whispered, reaching into empty air, as if she would come back again.

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

He came upon a band of orcs the third night from the village of Nindhras. The fact that it was dark helped conceal him as he observed them and their ways, quietly, in order to fathom their allegiance. It was not known whether it was that they attacked on their own, or that they were under the orders, yet to Glorfindel there was no question. They were under the command of someone more powerful, more meticulous. Perhaps that someone was right under Gil-galad's nose, or Tyelpe's in Eregion, and they had never known. Glorfindel could not say. He had not been back in Endórë for very long, but he did wonder who would dare betray their own people.

The orcs were normal enough, he could say. They acted as they usually would act, talked as they usually would. Glorfindel suspected that it was only the commander that would know if they were acting under another's orders, or perhaps it was only that they did not care. The orcs were mercenaries, anyhow. He wondered they would fight for him if he offered them enough gold.

They stopped often, complaining of the cold and of the scarcity of food, and their leisurely gait hinted that they were under no one's control, only hunting. But Glorfindel knew one thing: they had a destination. He had time, but he decided he would follow them for a fortnight and no more, if they came to naught. The latter decision meant also that he would have to kill them. It was likely for the better.

A week passed. Under the gruff dialects, Glorfindel could decipher a few of their words, and it became clear that they were heading toward somewhere in the southern mountain ranges. When he understood, his blood ran cold. _Morinórë. . .Lúmë-mindon. Easterlings. The Lord of Gifts._

He did not want to believe that it was true.

Nonetheless, he followed behind as they plodded deeper south, into Morinórë. He feared the other scouts would not return.


	49. Chapter II-XVII

CHAPTER XVII

* * *

— _Atharys—_

Mairon was standing in the throne room, his back to Atharys when he returned. Atharys did not have to see his face to know that he was angry, troubled, perhaps even _frightened_ of what would happen now. It would not be long before Morinórë was discovered, and they would scarcely have enough forces to fight against Lindon and Eregion when they came for them.

"I appreciate that you have managed to grace me with your presence, dear yondonya," Mairon said, his tone icy.

Atharys went to a knee and bowed. "I welcome your return to Morinórë, my lord."

"I feel _so_ welcomed. I wonder, yondonya, why you left Lúmë-mindon?"

"I went to the south," Atharys told him, "to visit Hrysívë."

"You went to visit her," Mairon drawled. "Did you have a good time?"

"She is doing well, yes."

"Good," Mairon said. "Wonderful. Have you any idea that Nínquë, the one _you_ put in charge, is dead, killed by Hestáryn, yet another one of our ludicrous court?"

"I have every idea," Atharys said. "The rider has informed me of all that has occurred."

"Excellent. And what are you to do of it?" The sarcasm and menace dripping from his voice threatened to snap.

"Just as you are, I know that we cannot fight against both Lindon and Eregion. Especially under the leadership of High King of the Noldor."

"You have not answered the question."

"Atto, you taught me to do that when I did not want to tell the answer." Atharys began to pace the room at a leisurely pace. "Really, there is no need to suppress your anger."

Mairon spun upon his heel, eyes furious—then a guard approached and bowed. He seemed to be waiting for one of them to back down before giving his report, then with an uncomfortable glance at both of them, decided to speak.

"My lord," the guard said, addressing Mairon, "Lord Hestáryn has been summoned."

"Get him in here." Mairon had not moved, his fingers inches away from curling around Atharys' throat.

The guard bowed and departed. A long moment later, Hestáryn sauntered into the hall and knelt before Mairon. He quelled his fear well.

"Hestáryn pays respect to Lord Mairon, High Lord of Morinórë." His tone was formal and indifferent, evidently an attempt to subdue Mairon's wrath.

"Hm." Mairon broke away from Atharys' gaze. He narrowed his eyes at Hestáryn, pursing his lips, and walked slowly around him in a ring of demise. Atharys watched them both carefully, nothing moving save his eyes, and he knew undoubtedly what Mairon would do.

"Hm," Mairon said again, more pronounced this time. "Have you any idea what you have done, Lord Hestáryn?"

Hestáryn opened his mouth, closed it, and did not answer.

Mairon's voice was eerily soft. "I asked you a question." Then suddenly his anger snapped and morphed to rage. "I _asked_ you a question. _Have you any idea what you have done?"_

Hestáryn jumped, bowing deeper, his eyes wide; it seemed that the chamber had darkened with Mairon's temper, and even Atharys had to take a step back. His muscles were taut as a rope about to snap, his brows scrunched, his veins popping out of his skin. The irises of his eyes had gone a dangerous scarlet rather than their usual amber, like a leaping fire.

"Answer me," Mairon hissed.

"Y-yes, my lord." Hestáryn's eyes were darting around, trying to find something coherent to say. "But, my lord, I do not dare say, in case I will offend you."

" _Speak!_ Your fears are nothing."

"I admit to my follies, my lord. My crimes. I killed Lord Nínquë to obtain the maps from him, because I knew he would not willingly give it to me. Then I gathered what forces we had here in Morinórë and led an assault upon Amon Lanc, the capital of Eryn Galen. But there is more to Lord Nínquë's story that what has been told. I took the maps from Lord Nínquë because I found that he is a traitor, a would-be usurper of the throne. He was planning to give the detailed maps to King Oropher of Eryn Galen so he could strengthen his borders. Nínquë, a Noldo of the Eldalië, was never on your side, my lord. You never won his trust. He was trying to save his people from the beginning."

 _They will tell the tales they are told to sung,_ Atharys mused.

"Do you mean to say that Gil-galad already knows about us?" Mairon demanded.

"N-no, my lord," Hestáryn faltered. "I do not believe he had communicated with any of the Eldalië at all before his death."

"You do not _believe_ so? But did he?" Mairon turned away, his chest heaving. His voice was quiet when he spoke again. "Have you anything else to say?"

Hestáryn was shaking upon the floor. His mouth formed indecipherable words, beseeching. For a moment he found his tongue again. "I'm not—"

Like a snake, Mairon's arm whipped out, glinting dagger in hand, and slit his throat. The words died upon Hestáryn's lips as he let out a grotesque gurgle, blood spurting out of his mouth, and slumped over to the ground. Scarlet pooled out of his mouth and formed a puddle around him. When Atharys looked, his eyes were still wide open with terror.

Atharys had half a thought to fear Mairon's wrath himself; he took it upon himself to make the decision to leave before he changed his mind. And Mairon did not stop him, still turned to the window.

* * *

— _The Dead Girl—_

The girl twice dead woke to the sound of water softly trickling down a small stream. It was so tranquil and quiet to be asleep there that she did not want to open her eyes. She thought she might have been content if she remained there, listening to the water, her eyes closed for eternity, but she opened them nonetheless.

Her eyes swept over her surroundings—she seemed to be in a cave of some sort, perhaps a moderately-sized one, though it was large enough to have a stream somewhere, that was what she knew. She realized suddenly that the tension in her body had gone, and when she closed her eyes and felt her face, the fear and pain was replaced by nothing.

When she was Norkáwen, she had been no one, just a little slave girl, but now she was nothing. Nothing was an interesting thing to consider. Nothing meant absolutely nothing. No wind, no trees, no moon. Not even darkness. The dead girl thought about what it was like to be nothing.

She sat up, the cloak that served as a blanket falling off her, and looked at the elleth that was sitting before her, watching her demeanour. The elleth was silver-eyed, like her, and dark-haired, but she could tell that it had been dyed that color.

"You pulled me out of the river," the dead girl said, glancing at her wounds. She did not wince; her pain had numbed.

The elleth inclined her head. "I did."

"Why have you brought me here?" Truly, the words were not a question.

"That may be answered another time, by yourself," the elleth said. "Do you remember your name?"

"I don't have a name," the dead girl told her.

"Do you wish for one?" the elleth asked.

"I don't know."

"You should have one," the elleth said. "To be nothing is not suiting for you." She thought for a moment. "I think _Yressë_ is fitting." The word was an inflection of _cat_ in Quenya, for her nine lives. The dead girl wondered if she really could die and return nine times.

"Do you have a name?" the dead girl asked the elleth.

She smiled a melancholy smile. "Once," she said. "Once, they called me Athaeben."

Later, the dead girl wandered out of the cave, limping; she had fractured the bones of her right leg and both her arms. A jagged wound had torn open her skin from the ribs to hip, and her face had dealt a few scabs, but nothing would scar. All of this she looked at as she knelt by the riverbank, gazing in the water, yet she did not want to look at her eyes. They were dead eyes, the eyes of a girl twice dead.

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

Suddenly, one day, Lord Hestáryn stopped coming to see her. Some time later, a guard found her frozen and starving in the cell and put her back with the other prisoners of war from Eryn Galen. Was it odd that she almost felt special when Hestáryn had said— _Do you know how valuable you can be?_ It was, she decided with remorse, and resolved to not think of that again.

Thus what came to pass was another fortnight stuck in a wagon, though this one was considerably more spacious, as there were less prisoners. Many had been left in Morinórë, and others had been carted off in wagons.

They were sorted by age, it seemed; Narbeleth found herself in a wagon with the younger ones. She herself was about thirteen in Atani years. There were older ones that tended to be more defiant and violent—those were tied from ankle to ankle and wrist to wrist by the wooden plank, but even those had never reached adulthood. They would be around the ages of fourteen and fifteen in Atani years; any older than that were sent to the mines. Though some of them fought back, they were children all the same.

Some were audacious enough to talk. On the fourth day, some of the boys managed to muster up the courage to whisper to each other.

"They say we are going west," one of them said to her. He could not have been more than eight in Atani years.

It took Narbeleth a while to realize that he was speaking to her. She struggled for something to say. "I was born west."

"So was I," the boy said. "For a long time I stayed in Harlond. Do you think it is different from Eryn Galen?"

"Not very much," Narbeleth confessed. "The forests are less dense, though." _Despite the fact we are not returning to the same place._

"I remember I was so excited when I first left Harlond too see the new world. I'm not sure I agree with myself anymore." The boy shifted and held his hand out formally. "My name is Farothon, son of Feredir, son of Faltho."

"Narbeleth." She took his offered hand and shook it, as if she was Oropher in a council meeting. They could play this game, for now, until things got worse.

"Do you think they will kill us?" Farothon asked.

Narbeleth bit her lip, shaking her head. "We have come this far. They are taking us somewhere, for some use. You said west yourself."

"I did," Farothon murmured.

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

The orcs had become no use of him after he glimpsed the tower in the distance. It was sometime in the night that he quietly slit their throats. There was not even time to pile their bodies and burn them; he strode quickly away from the carcasses and toward Lúmë-mindon. He ran when he could or slowed to a brisk stride when he wearied. Gil-galad likely would have preferred him to return to Lindon now for a report, but there was no time. If they had a tower, and forces enough to attack Eryn Galen, who knew how much they had already accomplished?

Yet he was going slow, too slow. The tower was shielded by a range of mountains the orcs called the Ephel Dúath, and by the time he had gone a quarter of the way up a crag, he was caked with grime and dirt. For that, he was glad he had tied his hair up. Still, he laboured on, his arms burning as he climbed, and the tower seeming so far away.

It seemed a long time later that he found himself on the other side of Ephel Dúath. He stood there, bracing himself up on a tree after a long descent, and gazed at the tower. It was then he realized it was snowing, and the trees looked so beautiful adorned with white. He was baffled by this; he had not imagined it could be beautiful on this side of the world. The snow crunched under his feet as he took a step forward. Perhaps he would stay here for a night to recover, then continue in the morning.

 _They told me Hith was dead..._ Then why did he feel her fëa, pulsing so close?

* * *

 _A/n:_ _Few notes on the names...it's been a while since we've heard some of those. Athaeben does happen to be Silivros' sister whom he presumed to be dead, and Farothon is the "water boy" of Églanim's in Chapter Nineteen, Part One: Solitude._

 _And Taeloth isn't dead! Not literally, at least. That might have been unclear. She's not in Mandos. She's alive._

 _One more clarification: Mairon was being remarkably sarcastic and passive-aggressive (as he always is) in the Atharys pov section. He wasn't actually asking 'oh how's your sister' like a good dad :)_

 _Thank you for reading/reviewing!_


	50. Chapter II-XVIII

CHAPTER XVIII

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

In a sea of horses and riders, Rhystórë was suddenly nothing more than a mere speck of dust. The earth shook with the gravity of hooves, the neighs and shouts of horses and men filling the air as brightly, the sun shone down upon them, bidding them a fond and voracious farewell. Dust was a great cloud wafting along the ground, swirling up in a storm.

That had been days ago—perhaps five, since the host of Wainriders and other forces had been recalled to Lúmë-mindon. It was evident that the Princess Hrysívë had expected it; he had been the guard to deliver the message and had seen her face. Rhystórë had a thought that she had even hinted at the idea to Atharys before his departure...no, Lord Mairon would have recalled them anyhow, for he was in dire need after Hestáryn's attack on Eryn Galen. Insangar knew that, and laughed. Khamûl, however, had fallen below Insangar in forces and confidence, and he seemed more a lieutenant than a general.

Now snow was already beginning to fall in the first days of winter. They gathered swiftly and covered the ground in a white blanket, but the wind came and sprayed dirt from the trees upon them staining it. Some children in the village below the mountain would try to pick the dirt from the snow, but they only managed to mess it up even more.

The host prepared to camp a day's ride away from Lúmë-mindon, bracing themselves for the last ride. It was important that Mairon was pleased. Still many could not bring themselves to believe the power of the Maiar, though it was true. Princess Hrysívë had demonstrated for herself.

Rhystórë dismounted along with the other riders for the night's rest. Unsaddling his horse, he led the mare to the mere to the others then retreated back to the camp and propped up his tent, which was now split among four of them. They would not return there until long after evendim, when the last fires had died away.

In time, he found himself sitting around a fire and sharing the day's meat in a circle that included Aratan, the one that incessantly tried to propose to Khalentharia. It was often that he found himself here, he realized, though he still felt uncomfortable with these people. Again Khalentharia seemed to be busy; business with her brother, he supposed. They had a lot to plan about on the return to Lúmë-mindon.

The fire had nearly died by the time Khalentharia came. "Talk to people, for the gods' sake," she said, snatching the chunk of meat out of Rhystórë's hands and ripping a piece off with her teeth. "You look a dumb monkey, waiting for his mother to come back and feed him."

"It seems more like I am feeding you right now," Rhystórë retorted, reaching for it back.

She held it out of his reach while continuing to tear off chunks. When she had finished, she threw the bone in the fire and wiped her mouth on her sleeve then leaned into Rhystórë's ear to whisper, "No matter what you may say in defense of yourself, you will still be a dumb monkey, Númenórean."

Rhystórë smiled. It seemed like how it was when he had first joined the Wainriders, before he and Khalentharia had gone to Adlannaith and witnessed the decimation of the court, before they had seen the Princess of Morinórë slaughter the rebels. He wanted to pretend it had never happened, pretend the past was not there, though it would forever linger.

"Before seaweed, now monkey?" Amongst the Wainriders, he was still known as Ëaruilë.

"You can be both," she said, and he had half a thought that she was telling him that he could be both a Númenórean and a Wainrider. She yawned and leaned back against his shoulder aggressively—Rhystórë had not the slightest clue how it could be aggressive, yet it was, for he was so startled that he lost his balance and toppled off the log.

"Hey!" Khalentharia protested, and slid off with him. Landing with a thump beside him, she smirked and merely leaned back on again. "What?" she demanded at his stiffness, fruitlessly hiding a grin. "Never had a girl before?"

"That is none of your business," Rhystórë hissed, reddening.

She laughed and nestled herself into a more comfortable position. "Your shoulder is bony," she complained.

"It was your choice."

"It was." Khalentharia sighed and continued to try snuggling into a comfortable position. It went on for a long, awkward moment before she finally found herself content. Rhystórë decided to not say anything about that, and instead distracted himself by thinking about the embers of the fire dying behind them.

"What's the sea like?" she asked. "I've never seen it."

"Deep," Rhystórë told her, "and blue."

"Like your eyes?"

He was again taken aback. "Ah—sure. I. . .suppose?"

She laughed again. "I'd like to see the sea. Take me there someday, Númenórean."

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

"Lady Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë, pays respect to Lord Mairon, High Lord of Morinórë."

Mairon did not move from where he stood at the doorway overlooking the troops, and nor did he respond. Rising from my bow, I took a few steps forward, the _click_ of my boots audible upon the marble floor.

"Are you satisfied, my lord?" I said.

It was evident he had not expected our armies to be so vast, though his mask of indifferent had scarcely shifted. "You have done surprisingly well."

I smiled. "Indeed. I had the help of my lord husband and the Wainriders. I am certain that rewarding them will only bring benefits."

"Hm." Mairon's eyes seemed to gleam as they surveyed the host once more. "It may."

"It seems you now suspect me for the attack upon Eryn Galen," I said. "Because I, alone of the court, knew of the greatness of our troops, and knew that Morinórë was now powerful enough to contest a bit of power. Yet I can assure you that it is not so. I was struck with just as much shock as you were when I heard that Lord Hestáryn had killed Lord Nínquë, taken the maps, and attacked Amon Lanc. Though I may have foreseen it."

"How so?"

"I saw Hestáryn's imprudence from the beginning. We all saw, but many did not think. I thought of all the outcomes that could occur when you bestowed the task upon Lord Nínquë. And thus this came to mind." A smile played at my lips. "Yes, I know that you tried to hide the orders from me. But still it revealed itself in the end, did it not? Now I wonder, who did you send to map out Eryn Galen's borders?"

"A slave girl," Mairon said, words curt.

"Hm." I paused. "And I expect she was from Eryn Galen, wasn't she, to blend in the city so well? A Sindarin girl?"

"Yes."

"I see," I said. "Knowing your ways, atto, you would have killed her by now."

Mairon pressed his lips together, and I could see that his jaw was clenched, his neck taut. "You know me so well, yendenya."

"To that there is no doubt."

For a while we stood there in silence, watching the host go through their morning drills. Then at length, Mairon spoke again.

"I hope you will not be as poor of a steward as your brother," he said.

I wanted to laugh—again, I had known this would happen. "Evidently not."

"There are things for me to settle in Eregion." Mairon turned to me. "Some complications. I wish for you to maintain strict order. I will be returning periodically, likely during the night."

I inclined my head. "As you command, my lord."

Later there was a blizzard that stormed through the night and covered the trees and the ground in a blanket of white. By morning, the storm had settled and all was still. It was at this time Atharys and I walked through this land, the fog thick over the trees.

"We're back at the old place," I said.

"We are," he agreed.

It was indeed the old place—the place we had met before I had left Lúmë-mindon for a marriage to Insangar, the place where I had last been Hith.

"Mairon has put me in charge of Morinórë's governance, while he finishes business in Eregion," I went on, hiding a small smile. "He says you have done an atrocious job."

Atharys scowled. "It was _one_ mistake."

"Quite a large one." A pile of snow disintegrated under my boot. "What have you called me here for, dear brother?"

"Not a summon, but an invitation."

I waited.

"You told me that Hestáryn's revolt would be to our benefit," Atharys said, "because you knew Mairon would kill him."

"Yes."

"Unfortunately that may not have happened as you intended. Mairon killed someone, but he did not kill Hestáryn."

I halted. "I'm sorry?"

"Someone in the court, perhaps not in the court, but a Maia, most likely, had a slave wear the skin of Hestáryn and go to report to Mairon. As you expected, Mairon was angry and killed that man, but that man was not Hestáryn."

"Does Mairon know about it?" I demanded.

"No."

"Where is he now? Have you tracked his path?"

"I do not know. I have tried, but nothing has been found."

"Son of a bitch," I hissed.

"I have a question to ask you yourself," Atharys continued. "I have heard that your rule greatly models our father's."

"I killed the rebels, that was all. And I do not rule. I am under the control of my lord husband, the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders Insangar." The words were a drone.

"Is that so?" he said. "Under his control?"

" _Yes,_ it is. I am his fucking property and no more. Now if you may excuse me, Your Highness, I must go arrange what I will do with Hestáryn." With no more words I strode off back to Lúmë-mindon although really, I had no plans; I only wanted to be alone.

For a moment I walked in oblivion, wanting only to lay down in the snow and freeze myself into a numb stupor, as if I had drunk too much wine. In oblivion I would stop feeling, stop caring. If there was no such thing as emotion in the world, then logic would be crafted and carried out so much more easily. That was the device Hrysívë, Princess of Morinórë, used. It was not known if she felt anything at all, if that was possible.

Then a clash came to my ears, the sharp, shrill clash of steel against steel—but only once. _Atharys._ I whipped my head around and summoned my wings forth, a great gust of wind blasting through as they came. _It must be a spy they sent from Lindon._ I felt the ósanwë to prepare myself against my opponent, then wavered as a sudden doubt swept through me—the fëa was so familiar, so close…

I crashed through the trees, my wings spread wide to steady my fall, then stopped dead in my tracks at what I saw. Atharys was on his knees on the ground, a dark red stain spreading from where a sword pierced him in the chest, the blade wielded by Glorfindel.

Time seemed to still, and intangible thoughts swirled in my mind. A misty covering veiled over my sight and the ground was suddenly miles beneath where I floated, half a ghost myself. Fleeting memories, dreams, visions all drifted by and away, like dandelion seeds in the wind.

Then I sprang forward, flipping my daggers into my hands. Glorfindel turned, his expression startled and in sudden shock. My boot connected with his ribs and he fell to the ground, a shower of snow spraying up, my dagger at his throat.

A long moment passed, and I clenched my jaw, pressing my dagger harder against his throat. A drop of blood materialized—two.

I hefted myself up, jerking my dagger back. "Go."

He did not move.

"Get out of here. _Now._ " I inhaled sharply, my breath forming a silver cloud before my lips. "Before I kill you."

He got to his knees, then his feet. Slowly, he took two steps back. Then, he said, "Hith—"

I spun upon my heel, turning away from him, and threw my dagger. It hit the branch of a tree. I counted the moments. One. Two. Three.

When I turned, he was gone.

I rushed over to Atharys, who had collapsed into the snow, his blood seeping through. The sword had not gone wholly through his body, but it had still gone deep. His breath was laboured and his eyelids heavy with pain and blood loss, fighting to stay open.

"Shit," I muttered, examining the wound.

He gritted his teeth as I turned him flat on his back. "Am I going to bleed out?"

"You're not going to bleed out. The blood of the Maiar is within you." I clenched my jaw. "Lie still. I have to remove the blade."

"Damn it." Atharys drew in a trembling breath, looking as if he would refuse. "Do it quickly."

I planted a foot on his shoulder to steady him and the other on his leg, then grasped the hilt with both hands. With a sharp tug, the sword came free and Atharys stifled a cry as more blood than I would have liked gushed out. I unclasped my cloak and ripped a piece off, pressing it to the wound. Almost immediately the cloth darkened with blood. Cursing, I tore another piece and underwent the same procedure.

"He was trying to kill me," Atharys said, trying to hide his terror.

"You are wasting your breath."

"You don't want to admit it. You knew him." Atharys clenched his hands into fists, the snow melting in them. "He was trying to kill me."

My eyes were menacing. "Say that again."

"He was trying to kill me."

I glowered, but I would do nothing, and he knew. He coughed and spit blood out of his mouth—too much. His head lolled back and he fell unconscious, into oblivion.

"Damn it. No." I made a sound of indignation and slammed a fist on the ground.

Leaving the sword in the snow, I bound more cloths to the wound and hefted him in my burning arms, dragging him back to Lúmë-mindon, a trail of scarlet behind us.

* * *

 _A/n: Please let me know what you think! Any kind of feedback would be great :)_


	51. Chapter II-XIX

CHAPTER XIX

* * *

— _Naergon—_

"Your Grace, a letter from Eryn Galen," Naergon said, offering the paper to Gil-galad.

The High King of the Noldor rose from his seat and unfolded the message, a dour expression on his face. His sullen countenance only worsened as he scanned through the contents then looked up.

"You have read it?"

"Yes." Naergon shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Gil-galad turned away, shaking his head, and let the paper flutter onto his desk. "Where has that Númenórean Lieutenant gone?"

"They say he died in prison, Your Grace," Naergon told him. "He died the day before his execution."

" _Huh!"_ Gil-galad made a sound of exasperation. "It would have been helpful if his brother had not framed him. We need the Númenóreans aid in this fight. If the orcs were audacious enough to attack Eryn Galen. . .who knows where they will strike next? Eregion? Lindon?"

Naergon did not answer.

"Call Lord Glorfindel back from Eregion," Gil-galad said. "We need him."

"Your Grace," Naergon began, "Lord Glorfindel left Ost-in-Edhil before he could speak with Lord Celebrimbor, who was in Rhaendach. It seems he found something urgent he had to fathom so as to leave so early."

Gil-galad sighed. "Damn it. Give me a subject that will obey my orders for once."

"Lord Elrond is still acting as your lieutenant in Ost-in-Edhil. It seems that at this time, Lord Celebrimbor would be just returning to the capital. He had business to take care of in Rhaendach."

"Send provisions and supplies to Eryn Galen. I want a full report. And I expect the Númenóreans would know by now also. . .I will begin drafting a letter to the King, and it is only to be seen by the eyes of the King."

Naergon bowed. "It will be done, Your Grace."

* * *

— _The Dead Girl—_

Her leg was starting to mend, enough that it did not send spasms of pain shooting up her body every time she put weight on it. Athaeben left food for her in the cave, but she was gone most of the time, leaving the dead girl, Yressë before Norkáwen, once Taeloth in solitude. Thus she was taken by surprise when Athaeben returned one night with words to say.

"Come," Athaeben beckoned her to sit by the fire. She did, cross-legged, and stared at the elleth before her, her face seeming ghastly in the orange light. She had never truly looked at Athaeben before, and all she knew as of now was that her silver eyes and dyed hair contained a thousand mysteries untold. She felt an oddly warm feeling to have another Sinda near, her own kind. It was like how, if she was ever walking around the streets of Lindon, it would be more comfortable for her to inquire one of her own. They were connected from the start and intimately.  
"Have you ever met the princess?" Athaeben said. Though the words were a question, it scarcely seemed like one. Athaeben had that manner of speech.

"No," the girl twice dead told her. "But I know Her Highness's name is Hrysívë and she is the daughter of Lord Mairon, sister of Lord Atharys. I have met the latter two both, but not Her Highness."

Athaeben scarcely moved when she spoke. "Would you be surprised if I said you have met her?"

She shook her head. "Things are often not what I expect."

"Her Highness Hrysívë once had the name of Híthriel," Athaeben said. "I assume you know the name."

The girl twice dead lifted her head even as the revelation shocked through her. She opened her mouth as if to whisper the name again—the name that had given her hope when she was lost, then lowered her eyes to the ground.

"I wish to speak to her," she said.

Athaeben had been watching her carefully. "You mean to return?"

"Only for one night," the girl twice dead told her. "I will be Norkáwen for one more night."

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

"We should hope he lasts the night," Eressë said, not looking at me. Atharys had not woken since his fall, his countenance deathly pale. I stood about a yard away from the sickbed in detachment, glancing back every few moments to ensure his fëa was still pulsing, surviving. To Eressë's statement I gave no answer.

"Your Highness," Eressë began, the courtesan and ex-healer. "May I ask how His Highness was wounded? So that I may properly treat His Highness, of course. The wound is quite deep."

"No." I turned away, my arms crossed and my body taut.

Eressë bowed her head in submission, and I was glad for one that would not object to every word I said for once.

"Assign a handmaid or squire to be with him at all times," I said. "He is not to be left alone."

"As you command, Your Highness." Eressë slipped out of the room.

I was about to take the chair next to Atharys when a guard rushed into the room, his brow beaded with sweat. His eyes widened all the more when he saw Atharys even as he thudden to his knees, bowing.

Stepping forward, I spoke sharply. "What is it now?"

"Your Highness. Lord Khamûl wishes to speak to you."

"Does he now?" I glanced back at Atharys. "Tell him his matter can wait."

The guard only sweat more, his eyes darting all over the room. "Your Highness, Lord Khamûl deems his matter urgent—very urgent."

"I _told_ you. _His matter can wait._ "

He wavered. "Your Highness. . ."

"Speak!"

"Lord Khamûl has instructed us to bring you by force if you do not comply."

That surprised me. _Let us hope Eressë will return soon._ When one drop of poison enters a basin, the entirety of it becomes contaminated. "Oh?"

"I hope it does not have to come to that, Your Highness."

"Ah." I smiled, every inch of the mask saccharine. "I hope so too." I looped my arm around the guard's and made to walk out of the room. Making a noise of indignance, the guard tried to pull out but I held fast, twisting the arm at the elbow and smashing it into the wall. He howled in pain and clutched at his arm, the bone jutting out of the skin. I glanced at the blood it had left on the wall and hoped Eressë would understand my message, then dragged the guard outside to where his company was waiting. They started and drew their swords when they saw, but their form was quickly dispersed as I threw the guard into their lines.

"I can find my own way, thank you," I said, and stalked off.

They were in the throne room, transformed into a court. Khamûl was standing there in front of them all, an assembly before him.

"Come to accuse me of some unspeakable crime, Lord Khamûl?" I drawled.

He turned, and there was no sly smile on his face. "Indeed. I hope you know of them."

For a moment I doubted myself; truly, there was nothing to accuse me of, but there was a great assortment of things that he could frame me for. With Mairon gone and Atharys wounded, I had no political support, only a sea of opponents. It was almost as if Khamûl knew that Glorfindel would come precisely at that moment and attack Atharys. _You have played the game so carefully and yet you did not see_ this _coming._

"In fact I do not, Lord Khamûl," I said. "I do not know what I have done to cause such a large court to assemble. May I ask what you are charging me for?"

"Indeed." He turned to the court, and noticing Insangar, I narrowed my eyes. "The truth shall soon be revealed, but here it is known that Her Highness Princess Hrysívë is guilty of attempted murder, incest, and treason to the throne."

It took all of my strength to not grapple him at this moment and watch the breath choke out of him. The accusation was absolutely insane— _implausible_. Who would dare believe it?

"What do you have to say, Your Highness?" Khamûl turned a fraction toward me, putting me under him even with my status.

"I would like to hear the entirety of your tale," I said, struggling to keep the anger out of my voice. The result was something uneven, shaking with suppression.

"Certainly." Khamûl began to pace the front of the court as all listened.

 _Words are poison_. _It would be better to not let him do this. Kill him and be done with it._ But I remained stiff at the edge of the room. If the Wainriders turned against me at his command, there was no escape.

"Her Highness Princess Hrysívë has attempted to kill her brother, His Highness Prince Atharys, as a ploy. She never meant for him to die, but to say that it was my doing and frame me instead. All of us has known that she had hated me ever since her awakening, and even before. It may not be known to all, but during my seventh year, she killed my father, the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders before me. It hurts my heart dearly to say it, but Her Highness's actions are treason, and a threat to the Wainriders."

Murmurs had erupted in the gathered crowd, yet I held my head tall and said nothing of it. "Have you more to say, Lord Khamûl?"

He nodded once, an audacious, hounding gesture. "Your second crime. I know my father's death does not count so much as a crime, does it?" His eyes were fierce. "No, not so much. Your second crime—your plans to kill your husband, Insangar."

This time I could not stop my anger. I rushed forward. "You son of a _bitch_ —"

Khamûl was prepared. Immediately half a dozen of his guards seized my arms and pulled me back. My own royal guards were blocked.

"I would never— _never_ try to kill my lord husband. Careful of your words. They are dangerous, Lord Khamûl. False accusations are treason."

"That I do know, Your Highness," he said. "Therefore I do not lie. My people know that of me."

I spit on the ground before his feet. He went on.

"After her husband's death, her plans are to seduce her own father and make a child, so the kingdom's heir would be a pureblood prince. When her father, the High Lord of Morinórë Mairon, is eliminated, she would be the ruler of the kingdom behind that prince. This, evidently, is treason. Do you deny this, Your Highness?"

"I _do,_ " I hissed. "I deny it all. Where is your evidence?"

It was then he smiled and put a finger to his lips. "Those are coming, Your Highness." He turned to the crowd. "Do we doubt these accusations?"

There came a mixture of indignant shouts. I noticed that Insangar stood silent, his face expressionless.

"May our first witness come forth," Khamûl said, gesturing for Khalentharia to come forward.

She stepped to the front, pale with exertion. Conflicted eyes flicked at me then back to the crowd. "My name is Khalentharia," she began, "daughter of Yeneghei, the late Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, and sister of Lord Khamûl, Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. I have seen Her Highness Princess Hrysívë tear apart our people from the inside out, murdering our own in the name of treason." She glanced at one of the guards that was holding me. "Two months ago, after she had successfully conquered the people of Adlannaith and bent them to her will, a rebellion stirred. She killed them, all fourteen before her, men, women, children. And there is something more that most do not know." Khalentharia paused and drew in a breath. "We all know Her Highness conquered Adlannaith by disease. Some of our own Wainriders fell ill from it, more than was good. Yet she paid no heed to them—as a Maia, there is no way for her to fall ill. But those that died where those against her, as if she had planned it. They were our own commanders. She wishes to take over my brother's position."

"Thank you very much for testifying, Lady Khalentharia," Khamûl said. "If you may step down, Lord Insangar may now come forward."

Insangar did not look at me when he approached. "My name is Insangar son of Huylud, Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, and I am lord husband of Her Highness Princess Hrysívë." Slowly, he began to pace the room. "It was only recently revealed to me that Her Highness's blood is laced with ungolócë, a deadly poison that would kill a mortal such as I." Murmurs wafted across the room. "She has tried to give this poison to me—she has tried to kill me, her own husband, she has tried to kill the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders."

I had never. "You lie." _Though I would gladly see my blood glistening on your lips right now and your mouth gasping for air as the life is sucked out of you._

He opened his mouth as if to say more, then inclined his head to Khamûl and retreated.

Khamûl took no notice. "May the last witness come forward."

Eressë emerged from the door, her expression indifferent, and halted before the crowd.

"Traitor," I hissed.

She paid me no heed.

"My name is Eressë." She paused, as if contemplating what she should label herself as. "Handmaid of Her Highness Princess Hrysívë. I can testify of her notions of treason."

 _They must have promised her freedom._ I stayed silent.

"Her Highness has told me of her plans—I have seen them. All of what Lady Khalentharia and Lord Insangar have said are true." Eressë went on, reiterating what those before her had said. Nothing new. They only needed another witness, more evidence.

When she was finished, she bowed and went away. Khamûl turned to me. "Your Highness. Have you anything to say?"

I raised my head. "No."


	52. Chapter II-XX

CHAPTER XX

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

The Three were completed, and hidden in a deep vault somewhere in his chamber. It would be of use, soon, he knew. Perhaps it could even redeem him from what he had done to Nestadren of Rhaendach. Perhaps, he thought, he was no better than his father, no matter how many times he told himself otherwise.

Look at this world. It's made of bits and pieces of things, like a massive shattered mirror. Sometimes you might depict yourself as more virtuous than them all—no, I wouldn't do that; no, I am not that person. But when you look inside, all you see is your face in the mirror. Maybe at first you wouldn't recognize that they were your own eyes because you thought of yourself to be better. But that mask on your face is only an illusion, and mirrors do not fall into the snares of illusions.

What makes up this mirror is all the different people in this world. They are held together by frangible threads that threaten to snap at the first hint of strife—therefore some have tried to glue these shattered pieces back together to form a gangly thing. And why are these threads so frangible, you might ask? Because we have been taught that way since the very beginning.

People say that you always become your parents in the end. It is because they are the ones who were there ever since the first day you opened your eyes, the first time you spoke, the first time you stood. And whether you loved them or not, you would remember them, and be influenced by them, whoever they were. When you are a child, you know nothing. All you know is what they do, and who they are. Thus the cycle goes on and on and the world is left to the ruins of minds, of hearts, of people.

Look at your eyes. Do they say these words tell true? Then let that mask, that illusion, crumble away and look at yourself, truly, genuinely, in that shattered mirror. The mirror will not mend, no, but it is beautiful that way—don't you think? You can only be beautiful after you've been broken.

Tyelpe knew his crimes, he knew his deeds, and he knew now he could not trust Annatar. The past had to be put behind, though their memories remembered. This was something new, a new illusion he knew he had to paint for Annatar to be content, for his schemes to be revealed. Thus that day, he colored a certain mask upon himself that he knew would please Annatar. What surprised him was that Annatar did indeed fall for this slight ploy of his; he had not expected himself to be so wily.

The winter wind blew his face raw that night as he thought about all these things, and he knew there was more to come.

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

The other night it snowed again and covered the stain where the ground had been watered with the ellon's blood. Upon brushing against his fëa, he realized that he was of kin to Hith, a brother most likely; he was very young. Another child of Sauron. . .it was an odd thought. Glorfindel wondered if he had killed the ellon; the wound was deep and likely fatal. _The_ ellon _is Hith's brother,_ he told himself. _You killed her brother._

Yes, he had gone back for the word. Like the fool, like the craven he was, he had gone back for the sword, though some might say it required bravery. Perhaps that was so, but it was still a craven's sort of bravery. He was afraid to face Hith lest she was there, waiting for him, to kill him for what he'd done. She was not there, however, nor anywhere near, and he was not sure whether that brought him ease or not.

There was something prowling in the shadows that was not eluded—not until it was too late. The eerie silence in the forest grew too much just as he sensed something, turned, and staggered as an arrow protruded from his thigh. He grunted and drew his sword, his blood dripping onto the snow, knuckles white on the hilt. Yet he could see no one—the trees were tall and dense, a perfect site for an ambush. He cursed as an arrow hit him in the shoulder, then again as a circle of Easterlings enclosed around him.

However skilled a fighter someone could be, they could not overcome fifty men coming at them at once. Though he managed to kill five and injure a few others, his wounds weighed him down. They dealt him more blows until he fell to his knees, disarmed, blood running out of a gash on his cheek. _Easterlings. They were Easterlings._

A pommel hit him on the back of his head and he fell.

* * *

— _Hrysívë—_

For an entire day, darkness engulfed me. I could see nothing, feel nothing but coldness, hear nothing but the sound of water dripping somewhere. Closing my eyes was the same as opening them, so I kept them closed, my lids weighing me down with fatigue. My wings were nailed to the stone and my wrists and ankles chained to the walls, yet I scarcely felt it. All I felt was the sardonic humor that kept swimming back into my head. _Funny to end up back here again, after all the work you've done. Seems I'll never get anywhere in this very amusing cycle._

Then at last the visitor I had awaited came. A glaring beam of light shot into the room as the door opened and revealed Khamûl's shadow walking through. I furrowed my brow, squinting my eyes at the painful light even as the door closed, revealing Khamûl holding a lantern before him. I was expecting him to be victorious—at least look it—but all I saw was an angry young man bent upon revenge. He looked tired more than anything, much less threatening now that he wasn't holding himself up to present to the court.

"Do the fetters bother you, Your Highness?" Khamûl hung the lantern up and approached me.

"What bothers me is that my hair is itching my neck," I said. "Mind tying it back for me?"

Khamûl ignored that. "You chose this. You could have killed the guards before they clamped those chains on your but you did not."

He wanted to know why, but I would not give him the satisfaction of an answer so easily. "I did. Lord Khamûl, I thank you for granting me this. . .realization."

He suffered himself to inquire. "What is this realization you speak of?"

"My lord, I am sure you have more interesting questions than that of my own self beliefs. Why don't you go ahead and continue the interrogation on the case?"

"There _is_ no case," Khamûl hissed. "It has been decided."

"Oh, good," I said. "I wouldn't want you to worry."

He slapped me full in the face. "Mind your words, _Your Highness_."

I bored my eyes into his, undaunted by the threats. "I'll be sure to."

Face flushed with anger, he turned away, chest heaving. "I'm sure you would like to know if your brother still lives."

I said nothing.

"What would you pay to know the answer?" he said softly.

"Death is not the same for us as is for you. I do not fear death, as one twice dead, and neither does he."

"Then what do you fear, Your Highness? Are you so arrogant as to say you are daunted by nothing? Though you say this, I know you care for your brother. Your words do not fall upon a deaf mind. There is fear hidden beneath your eyes, your mask of indifference." He laughed a crazed laugh. "If you wish to continue the interrogation, then yes, I will continue. What tale would you like me to spin? Who was the one that stabbed him?"

"The tale you spun said that it was my doing," I said. "Do you regret that now?"

"His half-dead Highness will scarcely believe that, don't you think?" Khamûl mused. "I assume he still has eyes."

"He was before a Lord of Gondolin. Happy now?"

He smiled. "Very. You have confirmed my suspicions."

"With those words, you have aroused my own. It was you who drove him in our direction, was it not?"

"Ah, clever, aren't you? I did not know who he was, but I was willing to take a chance. There was one thing I knew about him for sure—he was one of your kind, sent by the High King of the Noldor to piece together the clues. That much told me that he would likely attack when he saw you. However, this played all too much in my favor. He knew you, but not Atharys, and he happened to come in just the right time for—" He snapped his fingers, the crisp sound echoing off the walls. "—it to happen. I am all too fortunate today. Either way, if he killed Atharys or you or both, or if you overcame him and either killed him or took him prisoner, it would be to my benefit."

I was silent.

"Do you feel you have nothing to lose, Your Highness?" Khamûl scanned the wounds on my body. "I am sorry if the guards have treated you poorly."

"I did not feel it."

"You let them." He pressed on. "I want to know why."

 _Because I realized that no one would ever love me no matter what I did, though I never expected them to in the first place._ Emotions were odd, silly things that made the slightest bit of sense. Seeing, knowing that Glorfindel was alive again brought something different into me, something old and full of melancholy. Seeing, knowing that he had nearly killed Atharys twisted that.

"Answer me," he hissed.

I raised my head. "I am sorry about your father, Khamûl."

His face froze in a mixture of fugitive visions and feelings, anger and fear tangled into a disconcerted knot. His eyes widened; he had not thought that I would have _dared_ to bring it up, however much of a monster I had become after changing into Hrysívë. But these words—he had not expected them to sound so genuine. Then the expression faded and transformed into cold hardness.

He turned away. "Release her."

The guards strode into the chamber, silver swords glinting in their hands. When they moved not to strike off my chains but rather pointed their blades to the bone that connected my wings to my back, something different leaked into my eyes.

"What are you doing?" Even now my voice trembled. I was tired, and I wondered why had I ever begun this in the first place.

"Freeing you, Your Highness." There was no satisfaction in his eyes as he gave a sharp nod to the guards.

Blinding pain knifed through my body as they drove the points of their blades into my wings, blood spurting from the soft flesh. Khamûl spoke an order, the voice low and guttural, a forced voice, and the swords went down again, hacking, sawing—

Someone was screaming, a distant sound, though vaguely I knew it was myself. It hurt my ears. Never before had I felt such unbearable pain, and though my eyes were open, I could see nothing; all I could see was pain. There was so much red.

* * *

— _Atharys—_

Atharys woke to a throbbing in his head and a burning numbness in his body, though he didn't know how he could be burning and numb at the same time. A handmaid was trying to feed him some kind of milk, but he thought it bitter and pushed it away even as pain shot up his body. He struggled to remember who he was and what he happened, and for a moment he panicked, thinking that he had been kidnapped before he came to his senses.

The bowl of bitter milk had spilled upon the ground, and the handmaid was busy cleaning up the mess. Atharys struggled to raised his head as he tried to glance around the room.

"Where is Hrysívë?" he demanded of the girl.

She jumped. "I do not know, Your Highness."

Atharys saw her look away. "You lie."

"Your Highness—"

His brow was burning. " _Where is Hrysívë?"_

"She—she is not here, Your Highness."

"Where?" he said again.

"Her Highness was—" The handmaid was shaking. "Her Highness was accused of treason and taken to the dungeons."

"She was. . .what?" Atharys sunk back into the pillows, lightheaded.

"Ah, don't say too much now, little one." Khamûl prowled into the chamber as if he had been standing there the entire time, watching from the shadows. "I would like to tell the story for myself. Go now, and leave us."

The handmaid bowed, tripping on her skirt, and fled from the rom.

"What have you done?" Atharys could scarcely see, much less think straight.

Khamûl turned to Atharys, his eyes narrowing. "I have brought justice to the court," he said. "It is not your place to question. Do excuse me, Your Highness, but you do not know what secrets have been kept from you. You do not know what actually happened."

"Then tell me."

The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders smiled. "I have questioned Princess Hrysívë on her actions, privately. She has admitted to once knowing the man who attacked and wounded you."

"I knew _that_ already." _And I also know you are trying to set us against each other._

"Ah. I had to make certain," Khamûl said. "And do you know who the man is?"

"Not the slightest."

"Then I suppose you must know." Khamûl paced around the bed once to emphasize the intensity of his words. "His name is Glorfindel, former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin."

The revelation of his return from Mandos sparked through Atharys's mind, and Khamûl chuckled at his expression.

"Can you not see now? Your sister, the Princess Hrysívë, has plotted against you. She had the Noldo attempt to mortally wound you because she needed to eliminate everyone in the way of her getting the throne of Morinórë. Initially she had planned to accuse me of doing so, but I figured out her plan first and testified to the court. I know you may not believe this story, but think about it—as she ever truly been on your side? Needless to say, she wants the destruction of her father's work. You are part of that work, don't you know?"

Atharys had no words to say. He wanted to tell him that he was a lying bastard, he wanted to believe Hrysívë's good will toward him. _You can change someone's name, change their appearance, but you cannot change their heart._

"Be a good prince now, and drink this." Khamûl held the cup to his lips. Atharys tried to push it away, but a bright whiteness flared in his eyes and exploded into a thousand splatters of red, then faded into darkness.

* * *

 _A/n: Damn...this is messy_


	53. Chapter II-XXI

CHAPTER XXI

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

Rhystórë was standing as a guard in the throne room the day Mairon returned.

The High Lord of Morinórë was in a pleasant mood after Eregion; Rhystórë wondered what he could have done. He demanded immediately for Hrysívë's presence, and as the Royal Guards stuttered and looked down, Rhystórë took it upon himself to answer.

"My lord," he said, going down to a knee. "Her Highness has been arrested for treason."

Mairon had his back to them all so none could see his expression. Rhystórë thought he might have been sifting through all their thoughts, trying to find the true story. "Has she paid for her actions?"

"Yes, my lord." Rhystórë did not know how he should elaborate, so he said no more.

"Bring her in, and Lord Khamûl also."

Rhystórë bowed. "As you command." He motioned to the Royal Guards while he himself stayed posted in the chamber.

Khamûl came first, and quickly, as if this was expected. He did not look frightened, not afraid to be punished, not afraid to die. His chin lifted and his hands behind his back in a genteel manner, he awaited his sentence or demise. Either way, it was the same. Rhystórë wondered what broke him; he remembered the cause his bitterness against the princess and did not blame him for it.

"Khamûl pays respect to the High Lord of Morinórë," he said, bowing, but not too deep. If he did, it would seem as if he was repenting to his actions. No, he was too prideful of who he was to do so. He was Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, and he stood alone.

Mairon turned and inclined his head. "I understand why you did what you did, Lord Khamûl."

 _Dangerous, manipulating words, as always,_ Rhystórë thought.

Khamûl gave no response. He seemed so small a boy compared to Mairon.

"Do you believe she is thoroughly punished?" Mairon inquired. "Was that enough blood for you, my lord?"

"I am surprised to find myself saying this," Khamûl said, "but yes, I do believe Her Highness has received a punishment worthy of the law. I am willing for her to be pardoned, and I am willing to work alongside her once more for Morinórë and my people."

Mairon nodded slowly. "I see."

The guards were coming. They fell silent upon their arrival so that there was only the sound of two pairs of rigid boots marching and another dragging and wearied. Hrysívë looked so helpless, tired, beaten that Rhystórë almost wanted to feel pity for her. With her eyes bloodshot and desolate and the dried blood that had crusted upon her body, she was worse than he had ever seen her, scarcely the cruel ruler he had known since he had fled from Lond Daer. Amid the scant garb of a prisoner, a sinner, he could see the jagged remains of bone that protruded from her back where her wings had been hewn off. When he realized the guards were not preventing her escape and were in fact supporting her, Rhystórë wondered what to think.

She stopped before her father and bowed. "Welcome home, atto." _Home._ That was a foreign word in this world.

Mairon studied her. Beneath the mask, Rhystórë could tell he was angry, shocked, perhaps even a little sorrow. He, for one, would understand the pain of losing what she did. "Lord Khamûl deems you to be thoroughly punished. You are therefore pardoned for your crimes."

She did not move, nor did she say anything. She only stared up into his eyes, unmoving. Khamûl did not move either, and kept his eyes lowered to the ground. Rhystórë wondered if he felt any remorse, any pity for what he did to her.

"The plan is ready," Mairon said, only to Hrysívë.

She looked at him, her eyes uncomprehending. "I do not understand."

"Eregion is at its most vulnerable time. They do not love Tyelpe's rule there; riots have risen and spread across the realm. It is our time."

"It is our time," she repeated.

* * *

— _Hith—_

I lasted the night, the following day, the day after that, and so did Atharys.

It was neither fortunate nor unfortunate. I stayed with him the night I was released, and when I came, he was awake, waiting for me. His eyes were tired but vigilant, watching me as I walked slowly with a cane supporting me as if I was an old man. Every step sent spasms of pain through my body. When I at last reached him, I set my cane against the oak chest next to his bed and sunk into a chair.

"Hello, Atharys," I said.

He had sat up a little straighter in the bed, staring at the ravaged wounds on my back—the remains of bone and flesh that had been my wings. "What did they _do_ to you?"

"You see it already. There is nothing to ask. I am sure Lord Khamûl came to you."

Atharys said nothing, but his gaze did not shift. I remembered the night after the guards had severed the wings from my back. A strong fever had been growing and hints of infection were beginning to manifest; pus and blood covered so much that there was scarcely any skin seen. Eressë the healer proclaimed that the bones that had not been wholly cut off needed to be amputated; at the time they still protruded from my back like a volley of arrows, and now they had been hewn down to just a few. They would have to do it a few at a time for the pain to be lessened as much as possible.

They bound my wrists so I would not damage the operation. I was on my knees facing the wall, partially glad I did not have to see the wounds. Khamûl watched me for the entire duration of the procedure, face etched with something that was neither contentment for his revenge nor sympathy. I wondered what he was thinking of. I wondered what Eressë was thinking of. I wondered if she regretted testifying against me.

When it was finished, I was gasping for breath, my body so taut I was afraid I would injure myself further. I had clenched my jaw until it numbed and rammed my teeth into the wall until I spit out a tooth swamped in dark blood. Khamûl met my gaze for a moment before turning away and sweeping out of the room as Eressë and the guards unbound my wrists. Again I found myself wondering why he suffered himself to watch this.

Bringing myself away from the past, I flicked my eyes back to Atharys. "How are you healing?"

He did not want to answer. "Fine." _You could have died,_ his eyes said.

I leaned a little forward, my body shrieking in protest, to peel away the bandage on his chest. The wound had, luckily, not festered, yet was still an ugly shade of purple.

"You will have a scar," I told him.

"I know," he said. _So will you._

I stayed there until he fell asleep although I felt nearly a ghost myself. The candle burned low, casting the room in a flickering grey and yellow lighting, like an old memory though I was in the present. Then a handmaid shuffled into the room, a pail of water in her hands. At first I did not turn to look at her—not until she spoke.

"Lady Híthriel," Taeloth murmured.

Startled, I jerked my head around, my back flaring in pain, and a thousand memories swam into my head, piecing the story together—watching the moon reflect upon the waters of Mithlond, the battle upon Hithaeglir, the stag and the ending of the first story. I had known that she still lived; that had been the motivation of forcing my fëa to stay within me and not drift away, but I had forgotten my purpose, forgotten who I was. _My name was Híthriel, once._

I tried to stand but instead stumbled to the ground, falling to my knees. "Taeloth. Taeloth, I'm—"

A faraway look came into her eyes at the words. She looked so small and sad in the waning candlelight. "That was my name, once."

Tears escaped out of my eyes—fugitive tears. They were not supposed to be here. Not when I was Hrysívë. Yet I remembered my name, once. My mouth tried to form coherent words, but nothing came out. Kneeling on the ground, I had to look up at her.

"I did not know you were alive," the girl said. _Taeloth. Her name was Taeloth._ She showed no emotion in her words, her face.

"Taeloth..." I had to remember her name. The next words came softly, words that had been stripped of the mask. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all I have done. I'm sorry I did not save you." _Did not_ , I had said. Not _could not_.

She did not reply, perhaps because she did not believe me. She had suffered too much on my account. For a long time nothing was said, and the room was filled with empty silence save the sound of my laboured breathing. Even with it, the room was empty.

"When I leave," she said, "don't come looking for me. I fend for myself now. I am no longer Norkáwen. I hope...this will be the last time we cross paths."

She wanted no explanations, which had me despising my actions all the more. I nodded and she turned away. For a while she remained, but in time she, too, left with nothing more. _That was it. The last meeting._ So many words unspoken.

My fëa went away from where Atharys lay motionless in sleep, away from the endless corridors of Lúmë-mindon, away from the bone forest. I bent time and dimensions and perception, twisting fantasy and reality until no one could know which was which. In due course I found myself in a land of cold light. Distantly I remembered the name—Forochel, was it called? Its name translated was the northern ice, almost like the Sindarin of Helcaraxë.

The night sky was bathed in a beautiful green light, the texture looking like blurred ink. It snaked through the treetops and cast the land into a dreamy reverie, glowing brighter than a candle, a lantern, a torch. Even a thousand torches could not compare. When I tilted my head up to gaze at it, even my wounds seemed suddenly not to pain me. I felt a child again, and I wanted to tug on Findekáno's arm and say, _Look, look at the sky. Look at how beautiful it is._

There was dock and boat where land fell into a drowned ocean in the northern lands by a village of the Lossoth. I climbed into the latter, feeling the smoothness of the wood beneath my fingers, and slowly I began to row even as my back began to burn. I rowed to a lost land, a drowned land. I remembered each realm as I passed them, who they were, what they had done, what they meant to me. At last I reached the isle where I had once dwelt, the city whose peak remained above the waves after the Drowning. _The name was Himring. Himring, the ever-cold._

I stepped onto land. Grass had grown where the fires of Bragollach had burned the city, where the War of Wrath had ravaged the land. Here the northern lights could still be seen as I lowered myself down to the ground, drawing my knees to my chest. _Remember. Forgive but do not forget._

At length I left this old, forgotten place—this melancholy, lost land—and went to another. It was a land adorned with ilex trees, crimson dotting their green: Eregion. The city was filled with those trees, and also little sleeping lights.

I wandered to the chamber that held a table, a pen, and ink. My fingers wrapped around the pen, slowly, as if they were afraid it would vanish or fall, then dipped the tip into the cartridge. They formed words in the old script; they formed a letter unprecedented, unsigned. A letter of admonition.

I hoped, when Tyelpe awoke the following morning, he would see, and he would know.

* * *

 _A/n: Please let me know what you think!_ _Thinking of Himring and First Age events gives me that feel of melancholy/nostalgia that I hope I captured._

 _Thank you for all the readers and reviewers :)_


	54. Chapter II-XXII

CHAPTER XXII

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

Time was a loose chain dragging upon the ground, shackled to the ankle of a toiling slave. The wagon continued to lumber on to some distant, strange land. Some died from the journey, mostly the older ones that lost the will to survive and the ones too frail and young. When winter fell and covered the lands in ice, one of the wheels broke and they huddled barefoot in the snow for a night.

"Narbeleth," the boy Farothon said. "Will we die here?"

He asked that sort of question every night before they went to sleep, and every night Narbeleth wondered if it was true.

"No," she said.

They had to walk for a time, until they arrived at another station and were given another wagon. During that time, Farothon got frostbite and lost one of his toes. The other children were lighthearted enough about it though they were themselves shaken and frightened; they teased him, calling him the Nine-toed Winterslayer. Farothon smiled weakly and said nothing.

Their captors were Atani, lower-class Númenóreans it seemed, who worked for a higher force, something laced with corruption—the underground slave trade. _Oropher will be furious when he hears about this,_ Narbeleth knew, but what she also knew was that he would not know of this for a long time. She did not know how long this secret corporation had lived, but it must have been a while; they were organized and calculated in their movements.

The wagon stopped at a city they called Lond Daer. There they cut her flaxen hair so that it lung limply down all at different lengths, but she had learned to be used to that. The journey had dirtied her hair and made it something more of smoky yellow than gold. After, she and the others were marched back into another wagon, which rattled to the hidden parts of the city where the heart of the slave trade dwelt. The wagon halted for a long time, leaving only a slight sliver of light coming through a crack in the splintering wooden walls, and the children grew restless. Narbeleth expected Farothon to ask her if they were going to die now, but he only stared out the rift in the wall, his eye seeming to glow as the light hovered there, like a firefly.

Then the inspector came. That was the worst part that Narbeleth tried fiercely not to remember, but in the end the inspector chose her, Farothon, and five others. The rest stayed behind.

They were led through a long corridor and up endless flights of stairs until their calves were burning and they were gasping for air. At last the inspector opened a door and they followed him through, wanting to be rid of the unending darkness.

"Abragân pays respect to Lord Belyswë of Lond Daer," the inspector said, falling to his knees and bowing deeply to the man behind the table.

The children stood blinking in the sudden light, unknowing what to do. The one called Lord Belyswë ignored the inspector as he stood and sauntered over to them.

"Hm." Lord Belyswë circled them like a tiger stalking its prey, his calculating eyes that of a hawk. Long moments passed, and there was only the sound of his boots clicking in the restless silence. Then he turned to the inspector.

"You have done well. How many more do we need to fill the ship?"

"Not many more, my lord. Perhaps fifty or so." The inspector had not risen from where he knelt.

"We need more men. Workers for the farms. All the men of Númenor will be needed for the true jobs—knights, soldiers, overseers. The children are enough."

"As you command, my lord," the inspector drawled.

Lord Belyswë waved a dismissing hand. "Take them away. I hope you have not forgotten to assemble a crew."

"No, my lord."

" _Go._ I did not command you to answer."

The inspector led them away through a labyrinth of stairs and passageways in the walls that seemed the same as the last. As Narbeleth walked, she thought she could hear the murmur of voices from within the walls—no, _they_ were within the walls. They could hear all.

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

It seemed that, to his captors, that three broken ribs and a dislocated arm was more amusing than a drunk man's nonsensical words. They laughed at how he hissed when they mocked him, they laughed at how he tried unsuccessfully to lash out at them, they laughed at nothing. In the beginning he strove to ignore their slanders and lies, yet it was too difficult to stomach. He had never been one to suppress his anger, his convictions—after all, he had once decided to single-handedly duel a Balrog in the jagged slopes of Crissaegrim. The thought was so amusing he was tempted to laugh.

Apparently he did laugh, because one of them hit him in the cheekbone, growling, "You find yourself amusing, Noldo?"

This time he made no effort to quell his sardonic laughter. "Very. You, also. You make up quite a circus. In my eyes, you are all acrobats riding on squealing pigs."

That earned him another blow. His mouth filled with blood, and he choked, spitting it all over the guard. At least his tormenor's indignance satisfied him somewhat.

Proud as he was, he was ashamed when relief flooded over him when they finally grew tired of the game and retreated to their posts, or brothels, for all he knew, though he soon learned they had dispersed by order. _A visitor at last._ He could not wait to speak with someone with some sense. Hopefully his visitor had a tongue and a pair of ears that could actually listen and comprehend what the hell he was trying to say.

His dislocated arm was flaring, which annoyed him. However, the fact that he could scarcely move in the chains binding his wrists and ankles only added to the torment, and oh, right—they had also stuck a collar around his neck, because somehow that was amusing. He tried to think of his injuries as annoyances; for some reason that helped him, generally.

Glorfindel heard the visitor enter from behind; he was blindfolded and gagged at the guards' departure so he could only rely on his ears and ósanwë to decipher his traits. He tried using his nose too, but only managed to conclude that whoever it was smelled like horseshit. Not much of a surprise, though even that told him that his visitor was likely an Easterling, or _Wainriders,_ as they called themselves.

The hairs on his back rose as he felt the visitor circle him, stalking him as a predator, but he did not speak. He fought the urge to lash out, knowing he would only miss again.

"Does it frighten you that I know who you are?" his visitor drawled.

 _No, of course not, you pitiful bastard,_ he wanted to spit, but the gag was too strained in his mouth.

"Silence is often read as fear," his visitor went on. "Do you fear me?"

 _Bitch,_ he thought.

"My name is Khamûl son of Yeneghei, and I am the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. You will answer to me."

 _Like hell I will._

At last his visitor halted before him and undid the blindfold. Glorfindel was taken aback at how young he was.

"You are Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, are you not?" _Once._ "I take it you once knew a girl by the name of Princess Hrysívë, or more known to you as Lady Híthriel, did you not?" The boy who called himself Grand Chieftain laughed bitterly. "I think you did." He stepped forward and lowered the gag, though Glorfindel said nothing, merely holding his fervent stare.

"Why do you not speak?" Khamûl said.

"Do pardon me, but you seem to have answered your own question and are not in need of any words of assistance." Glorfindel spat.

The Grand Chieftain laughed, though there was no humor in his voice. "No wonder the guards had so much fun with you. They were running back to their kennels with their tongues lolling out like the stupid dogs they are. All you have to do is walk them and give them food and they'll be happy."

"Whose orders was it to capture me?" Glorfindel demanded.

"Mine," Khamûl told him, "and mine only. I want you to know that no one else knows that you are here. Not Gil-galad, the one who sent you to your death, not your precious Hith, not your silly lover you met in a crumbling village—no one. _No one_ is coming to save you." Those words he spoke were in truth words to himself, words to his younger self.

"I don't need saving," Glorfindel said, "because there is nothing left to save."

Khamûl did not laugh this time. "Tell me what you know, so we can get this over with."

* * *

— _Naergon—_

Naergon did not realize that, that day, there would be more important things to guard than the slowly blossoming kumquat tree. The children thoroughly enjoyed stealing the fruits and spitting the seeds at him when they were done; they were like monkeys he could never catch. _Like forgotten dreams I never reached._ Eventually, he spent his time waxing poetry to himself to even care about the kumquat tree. He embarrassed himself for the second time that day (the first was not being able to catch the children) when Lord Tyelpe rode up to the gates, his left forearm bound with a bloody piece of cloak.

"Captain! Have you no eyes?" Tyelpe barked, dismounting.

Naergon started, his head shooting up. "My pardons, my lord. I was not expecting you so far from Eregion. And your arm—"

"Damn orcs," he said. "It might suit you to know that there will be a shitload of things you won't be expecting from now on. Where is Gil-galad?"

Naergon made to turn. "I will go to alert him."

"No. I need to speak to him _now._ And the Lady Artanis."

"Lady Artanis is in Lórinand, my lord."

"I know, Captain. I sent her husband running to her and their child before I left to Rhaendach. Take me to Gil-galad."

Naergon inclined his head. "This way, if you please." He left the other guard to take care of the kumquat trees.

They had taken a sharp turn at the end of the cloister when Naergon spoke again. "You will have your absence from Ost-in-Edhil to answer to."

Tyelpe nearly snapped. "I know."

"We sent Glorfindel and Elerondo to you, but they told us you left the morning they arrived. The former even claimed that you were. . .avoiding them, though we do not know why he rode away."

"Those were not your commands then? For Glorfindel to leave?"

"No, my lord," Naergon said. "Even now we do not know where he is. Some claim he has ridden south with the other scouts."

"Hm." Tyelpe wavered for a moment before speaking again. "And Hith? Have you found her body?"

"No," Naergon said quietly, "but we did find Silivros's."

Tyelpe looked up sharply at the words.

"It seems...according to inspection, that he died of some poison, likely the same that was in Hith's blood."

Tyelpe fumbled in his cloak for a paper and unfolding it, thrust it before Naergon. "This writing is her hand, is it not?" He watched Naergon carefully as the latter examined the letter.

"It is," Naergon said at last.

Disquiet trembled in Tyelpe's face as he snatched the paper back and drew in a deep breath. He strode forward again, and Naergon followed.

Gil-galad stood up sharply when Naergon and Tyelpe arrived, the latter not giving the former a chance to announce his presence before stalking in.

"Lord Tyelpe," the High King of the Noldor said in greeting, though the tone was more pressing than welcoming.

"Your Grace." Tyelpe inclined his head. "We have matters to discuss. I expect you know of the orc attack upon Eryn Galen by now?"

"I do. What of it?"

Tyelpe produced a small sack out of his cloak and slammed it on the table. "We have been deceived. I, most of all."

 _No shit,_ Naergon thought.

Gil-galad reached for the sack and weighed it in his hands, then let the contents roll onto the table. Two jeweled rings glinted—Narya, the Ring of Fire, set with a ruby red as blood, Vilya, the Ring of Air, a gold band set with a sapphire stone—and even their names were reminiscent of the Silmarils. Tyelpe slid the third off his finger and set it beside the two; Nenya, the Ring of Water, erected of _mithril_ , bore a shimmering white stone.

The High King of the Noldor looked up. "Tell me."

Silently Tyelpe produced Hith's letter and handed it to Gil-galad. His gaze was cast to the ground as the latter skimmed the paper, expressly when Gil-galad looked up in astonishment. Tyelpe opened his mouth.

"Take Narya and Vilya for safekeeping, and send Nenya to Artanis. When I return to Eregion...I think this will be the last time I will be in your city, Your Grace."

Gil-galad seemed he did not know what to say. "Why don't you go to Artanis yourself?"

Tyelpe looked away again. "I don't want to see her." _I don't want to tell her what I've done._

"You will take Nenya to Lórinand," Gil-galad said. "That is an order. Eregion is much closer to that realm than Lindon is." He drew in a breath. "If all this is true—"

"It _is._ " Tyelpe struggled with himself for a moment. "I was only too blind to see it. Annatar _is_ Sauron."

A deaf silence lingered in the air.

"This handwriting is Hith's," Gil-galad said.

"Yes." Tyelpe spoke quietly.

Gil-galad inhaled and began to pace the room. "We can only hope Glorfindel has found her by now—"

"Unless he killed himself doing so."

Again time went very cold.

"If the attack is so soon, I doubt your army will arrive in Ost-in-Edhil in time," Tyelpe said. "If Hith or Glorfindel come back, tell them—tell them I failed."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth. Face it, Artanáro. Whether I return or not, you must assemble armies. Contact Númenor. They will—they must come to our aid. It is their fight too. As for Eregion...this is this price I must pay for my crimes. It is all I deserve."

In his mind, Naergon could hear the sonorous thunder of the warhorn, though it seemed so real. _Ah-woo...ah-woo..._ And the drumbeats. _Doom. Doom._

It was right there—looming before him.

* * *

 _A/n: Thank you to_ mistAndStarlight _for the idea of the Númenóreans' illegal slave trade. It was a while ago, but I remember it :)_


	55. Chapter II-XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

* * *

— _Atharys—_

Atharys dreamt he was dragged through a long, dark corridor, yawning twilight always before him. He was blind—though his eyes were open, he could see nothing. Not darkness, but absolutely nothing. He tried to feel the bonds of energy around him through ósanwë, but it was clogged like mud in a pipe. It was likewise so for his mind; whenever he tried to think, he could come up with no answers nor any coherent thoughts. There was only a labyrinth before him, a labyrinth with no end he could not see, perhaps because he had no sight. Perhaps because the labyrinth was the loss of his eyes.

He woke gasping, sweat matting his brow. The thin sheets stuck to his body, soaked though with dampness, and forgetting his wounds, he tried kicking it off, a knife of pain stabbing though him. _You ignoramatic dunce,_ he chided himself, trailing off into more profound curses. Peeling off the gauze on his chest, he inspected the ugly gash—it was inky purple, darker than a bruise, and to his relief the blood and the pus no longer oozed out. He pushed himself up to a sitting position with a grunt, again breathing a sigh of relief when the wound did not bleed.

It was then he saw Hrysívë.

She was sprawled on the same chair beside his sickbed, but her eyes were closed, her face deathly pale, and her head lolling on the back of the chair, exposing her neck in a way she would have never done. Her chest was not moving.

Atharys stumbled to his feet, his legs getting caught in the sheets. "Hrysívë. Hith. Híthriel."

Suddenly he remembered her words to him that morning they had stared over a dream veiled by mist. _No. I don't like that either. Don't call me by a name. Call me your sister, and that I will be to you._

"Nésanya," Atharys whispered. She did not move. "Nésanya."

He collapsed back onto the bed, trembling a little. Outside there were forces gathering. Gruff voices shouted commands, horns blew, and marching feet shook the land. Atharys wondered how soon they would shake the earth.

Hrysívë stirred and opened her eyes, painted with desolation.

Atharys jolted up. "Nésanya."

She smiled a melancholy smile. "I was only dreaming, little brother. What is there to fear?"

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

The tent did not keep out the chill at night.

He found it irritatingly amusing that his 'cell' had no walls, no doors, only pieces of cloth whipping in the wind, and yet they still managed to keep him in it successfully. On top of that, he seemed to be lightly guarded, as if him escaping would make no matter to them, unless that too was a trap. It was likely, he deemed. Perhaps, soon, he would learn to trust no one. Since Khamûl, he had had no other visitors save the omnipresent guards who loomed about him like heavy storm clouds in a field with no end. He thought about who these people were and what had caused them to end up like this. After all, they were just normal boys stuck in the mask of playing guard. Anyone could become someone unrecognizable after a predicament. Glorfindel wondered how he would change, and if that change would be for the better.

The guards talked more than they were likely supposed to; thus he learned of their numbers and their schemes amidst words of insult. The information brought him more gratification and allowed him to be less angry when they mocked him, but he still faked anger so as to hope they would talk more. Yet this did not help him nonetheless, for rage churned inside him so fervently that at times he found it difficult to think straight. His dignity lessened even as his strength dwindled all the more.

Eventually he had gone into such a madness that one of the guards had to come and treat his wounds. It was the blue-eyed one, the one that stood back while the others tormented him. Though his was true, Glorfindel knew to trust no one, for he had scented something different in this one. He was no Wainrider, at least not born one.

"What is your name?" he inquired, none too haughtily.

The guard did not look up from where he was binding the wound. "Ëaruilë."

 _Seaweed?_ Glorfindel mused. _Interesting._ "You are no Wainrider."

Now he paused. "How do you know that?"

"I have a _nose_ , you fool. And some sense, unlike the rest of you. Your eyes are blue."

The guard huffed and turned back to his work.

"Get me out of here," Glorfindel said.

Surprisingly, the guard seemed not at all bewildered. "I have not the power."

"Get it, then."

"No."

Glorfindel's laugh was sardonic. "Do you know what they plan to use me for?"

"I thought you had some sense, Noldo. Likely Khamûl will want to save you for a while until he can bribe the Princess to his advantage. If you try to escape, they'll lynch you."

"Sounds promising."

"Keep your tongue behind your teeth and they'll hurt you less, that I'll tell you," the guard said. "You seem to have a temper."

Glorfindel smiled a broken smile. "With no doubt."

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

Rhystórë had become and expert at maintaining the stoic, bored expression of a guard. It seemed that he was not there to some, but he could tell that the cleverer ones took his presence to note. A guard could be easily bribed. He himself spent the mornings by the Royal Guards, an informer for Khamûl, and by night he guarded the prisoners.

They were having a court meeting and Mairon had not yet told him to leave. Perhaps because he wanted to paint friendship between them—the Wainriders and Morinórë. _Amusing, isn't that?_ Out of the original court of Morinórë, Hestáryn and Nínquë were dead, and Angaino, Tiríssë, and Undanya remained.

"I hope we can put the past aside now and see everyone here as allies," Mairon was saying. "Justice has been done, and the only good we can do now is move forward."

While Khamûl remained icily still, Princess Hrysívë dipped her head. "Wise words, my lord."

 _Too courteous. Too submissive. She is up to something._ Rhystórë shifted the spear in his hand.

Lord Tiríssë, the Maia of vigilance, raised his head. "My lord, may I say something?"

"Speak."

"The plans are all in order. The armies are trained and prepared, ready to attack. My only concern is that Ost-in-Edhil has thick, impenetrable walls, and we have no ladders."

Mairon looked as if he was about to snap back and tell him to get ladders, but he restrained himself and composed his stance. "It would be convenient if someone could slip in and open the doors wide and welcoming for us, but unfortunately both my dear children are incapable. . .at the moment."

At the comment, Atharys pursed his lips though Hrysívë seemed not to notice the insult in the words.

"So why don't _you_ take the job, Lord Tiríssë?" Mairon said. "I believe you are quite capable. After all these years, your power has grown. It is time for that power to be tested."

Lord Tiríssë's eyes were haughty, but he bowed his head nonetheless. "As you command, my lord."

"Then that problem is solved." Mairon turned to the rest of the court. "Does anyone else have any comments?"

No one moved.

"Spectacular. Then we should—" Suddenly he broke off in a rasping gasp, stumbling back and clutching his chest.

Lord Undanya stood as Tiríssë rose to his feet uncertainly. "My lord—" Angaino broke off, not knowing what to say. Atharys's face was wild and to some extent, terrified, but Hrysívë was indifferent.

Mairon had staggered to the window and now pressed a hand against the glass to steady himself. His rugged breathing had steadied somewhat, enough so that he could speak.

"Atto," Hrysívë said. "What is wrong?"

"Fuck that foolish _whore,"_ Mairon hissed. "They know. They _know."_

"Who are _they_ , my lord?" Angaino inquired.

"Eregion knows, you fool. Tyelpe—the whore deceived me. How dare he. . .how _dare_ he."

 _How dare he deceive the Lord of Deception?_ Rhystórë wanted to laugh. _Such things would have never been believed to be possible._

"If the armies are prepared—" Mairon glanced to the window again, breathing heavily and wrenching back his rage. He turned back to the court, eyes alight with a mad flame. "I suppose the march should begin."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

The sea used to be an intimate, homely place to her, yet now it was a dungeon. For a fortnight and a half they would sail west across Belegaer to Númenor, the land called Westernesse in the Common Tongue. Many would die on this voyage, yet more would grow ill, and some would, in desperation, cast themselves over the ship and into the sighing waves. There were five times the number of slaves than slavers on the ship, though none dared rebel after the first day when one attempted to fight back. The slavers made sure every one of them saw the consequence of resistance.

Inside it smelled of vomit and shit. The buckets were few and space fewer. The children were crushed so uncomfortably within a little cabin room some were even glad they were not with their mothers and fathers; in the main room it was worse. They could hear the incessant murmurs buzzing in their ears like flies in a field after a battle.

Narbeleth wondered how long hell could last.

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

Tyelpe spurred his horse forward for the last half a league back to Ost-in-Edhil. The army was drawing swiftly nigh—he had seen it for himself.

" _Come on,"_ he muttered, digging his heels into the horse's sides. His legs ached so much he thought he would fall, but he did not, so he pushed on.

Riding into the city, he shouted the news of their approached. They had prepared themselves for the impending attack ere he left, yet not enough. At the gates of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, he dismounted as Églanim strode up to him

"We've barricaded the gates, my lord," Églanim told him. "Our forces are ready."

Tyelpe pushed the wrapped box into Églanim's hands. "You must get this to Artanis. You _must."_

"Tyelpe—"

"Inside is Nenya. Should you fall, hope fails for us all. Get this to her safely. _Please."_

Églanim studied the package, nodding slowly. "I will."

Tyelpe breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

They both turned as a faint tremor shook the earth, the storm of distant marching.

"I should don my armor," Tyelpe said. "This is farewell, Lord Églanim. I wish you a safe journey."

Églanim inclined his head. "Farewell."

For a long time, Tyelpe stood staring at his hands in the armory, though his eyes looked past that and into waves borne into the past. He wished he could have seen Artanis one last time.

Three hours later, Tyelpe, Celebrimbor son of Curufin, led the people of Eregion out to doom.


	56. Chapter II-XXIV

CHAPTER XXIV

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

"My lord, you should get some rest," Angamaitë said. He was one of the crafters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain that had brought Églanim in when he had first come, twin of the other one called Telemmaitë.

Tyelpe had been watching the glowing torches of the siege like embers in the night, his fingers gripping so tightly on the walls that he felt he could not unclench them. "Any news of Églanim?"

"No." Angamaitë's voice was hesitant, however. He was looking down.

Tyelpe wanted to ignore that. "I'll be counting on you to keep a strict watch. Wake me if anything happens."

Angamaitë inclined his head. "It will be done."

Tyelpe managed to peel his fingers away from the wall where he had stood vigilant and turned away to his quarters. Halfway across the city, he realized that he was walking back to his old chambers in the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. That was fine, he thought, and continued to follow where his feet took him.

His old chambers were covered with a light blanket of dust. Intermittent cold wind blew from the windows, turning the pages of stray books on his desk. A beam of moonlight shone upon the books, lighting their contents. He walked over to them and ran his fingers over the drawings and calculations he had made, the pencil marks smudging and fading into the paper. It felt coarse yet smooth under his fingers. He did not know how.

He wondered if he had written too little in his letter to Artanis. Days before, he had sat at his desk, not this one, however, and pondered what he would say to her. His hand had scrawled one sentence, and though he had been shaking, the letters came out typical and pristine; the evidence of his sorrow did not fall upon the paper. He gave it to Églanim as if he had never felt something, as if he had never wept. Perhaps she would see it that way, or perhaps she would see past the mask.

Tyelpe fell asleep on the desk that night. He hadn't been planning to, but fatigue had weighed him down and being in his old room gave him a sense of somnolent nostalgia. The dust itched his nose, but he soon grew accustomed to the feeling. It reminded him of how his father's chambers were because he was never home. The wind through the window evoked a memory of the realm of Himlad that his father and his uncle Tyelko had governed. It had been a cold land, in East Beleriand, a plain lying between the Rivers Aros and Celon, right below Himring. A beautiful land. Nonetheless, it fell during the Dagor Bragollach, and he had escaped to Nargothrond not soon after the butchery of the land.

Darker memories drifted in after that—after the Bragollach, things had only gone downhill. The incident with Lúthien and his father happened, and Tyelpe had refused to see him again. His father had become some distant person he no longer knew. From there, his family drifted further and further apart, only to be reunited again in Nelyo's Union. They were hostile, but they were still family. They would fight alongside each other against a common enemy.

Then the Union had failed and become Unnumbered Tears. Tyelpe fled with Nelyo and Káno, only to wander in the wild for some lost years. Eventually they found their way to Amon Lanc, until Amon Lanc, too, was destroyed, and fled to the Isle of Balar. Such was the fate of them all. The last years were fleeing, fighting, hiding like cravens. They were no longer the proud Fëanorians they had been in the beginning.

Tyelpe was taken aback when the War of Wrath was at last won, and they were once again not under the fear of being killed. War had made them into animals, into monsters they did not know. He wondered how they would rebuild their realms, relationships, trust. Somehow he founded Eregion seven and a half centuries after the war had ended and the Second Age begun. Now he was sitting here, thinking of its destruction. He wished he could have seen Artanis one last time.

Like this, Tyelpe fell asleep. It was an unsettling way to sleep, but he did nonetheless, and somehow he was not plagued with nightmares; rather he dreamt of nothing.

It seemed only moments before Angamaitë shook him awake again. His eyes wide with urgency, he was breathing heavily and constantly glancing at the door and to the window, where smoke rose.

"My lord," he was saying. "Lord Celebrimbor."

Tyelpe opened his eyes. His head was hurting and his blood loud in his ears.

"It is late. I could not find you. Églanim has been captured and the siege broken."

A cold pain stabbed through his heart. Tyelpe staggered for his sword. "If only happy endings existed."

Angamaitë gave him a humorless, grim smile. "I would gladly follow you to death, my lord."

Tyelpe decided it would be better to not tell him about the truth behind Nestadren's death. "You can say that."

The streets of Ost-in-Edhil were painted with red. People had died falling over each other, poisoned arrows slowly consuming them. Perhaps in their last moments of life, two had stared into one another's eyes and realized that them both were feeling the same pain, the same terror, the same despair. They were all the same in death after all.

Somehow, his people still rallied to him. Tyelpe did not ride in upon horseback, sword gleaming and eyes bright with the song of death, like all the great heroes did. Rather he came hastening in, half running half stumbling, but he had a vehement and true passion in his eyes. That gave his people their strength even as some fell and died before their eyes.

He found Elerondo amidst the battle, fighting fiercely like his ancestors before him. Tyelpe found himself suddenly proud of this young ellon who would someday lead the Eldalië to victory.

"If Eregion falls," Tyelpe told him, shouting over the crying, "you must lead the people away. Somewhere safe."

Elerondo gave him a sharp nod. "I will."

After that, he never saw Elerondo again. The raging fire of battle swept them away from each other, cutting off their paths. Half the city was taken, and he wondered when the rains would come to quench the flames' thirst of death. Blood seeped from a wound on his forearm and another on his back. The latter one _burned_ —the blade had likely been poisoned.

A sea bird glided through the air. The wind was strong; it scarcely needed to beat its wings to fly. Compared to the turmoil of war, it seemed to be tranquil, slow, distant. What was it doing so far from its home?

Tyelpe was at the steps of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain when he fell. One of the demons, the demons of fire, felled him to his knees and bound him with a whip. _Funny, isn't that?_ That was how his uncle Findekáno had died. He had been a good leader, unlike him, but somehow they both were the same in the end. The whip snaking around him cut into his skin, drawing scarlet—so much scarlet.

He waited for the end.

* * *

— _Daughter of Winter—_

"The city holds," Mairon told me.

I was standing motionless, staring out the window as he remained in the darkness of the chamber. My fingers twitched, feeling they had to open that window—but not simply click it open. I had to throw it open, lunge so far out that I might fall out and plummet down.

"Hm," I said.

Mairon began to slowly pace the room, his boots clicking upon the marble floor. "On Khamûl's accusations—"

I raised a hand, turning away. "Don't."

He paused. "Why shouldn't I?"

I searched for a reason and found none. "Do what you like. It isn't like I have a say."

Mairon huffed, crossing his arms. "Yendenya, you know that isn't true."

" _Stop_ calling me that." I wanted to throw something at him, preferably a shard of glass from the window, but more likely my punches.

He raised his brow. "As you wish."

"What do you want?" I said quietly.

"What do I want?" Mairon echoed. "Why must everything be about what I want?"

"Because you want many things, and you will do whatever you can to get them."

His sardonic laughter rung across the room. "Indeed." He took a few steps, his eyes alight with vehemence and fierceness. "Indeed."

In the distance, I could imagine Ost-in-Edhil burning, fighting, dying. "I have something to tell you," I said.

"Oh?" Mairon stopped his pacing.

"You should be well aware that Insangar and Khamûl have. . .schemes of their own. They will attempt to eliminate everyone around you, and you should do well to keep your true disciples safe from harm."

He chuckled again. "Ah, of course. Of that there is no doubt."

* * *

— _The Dead Girl—_

The girl twice dead plunged a rag in the water and began to scrub the floor. She had told the elleth Athaeben she would go back one last night. It was amusing how she wanted to leave this place for so long, and now that they believed her dead, she could blend in with some of the other servants and go where she wished unnoticed. Now, as she reflected on it, it was the dream yesterday that had made her come back. A dream deferred.

She started as two guards came in, dragging a prisoner, bound and gagged, between them. The prisoner was streaked with grime and blood but she could tell that his hair might have once been the same hue as hers, and there was something strangely familiar about him. The guards threw their prisoner in a cell and chained his wrists to the wall, but he did not scream nor make any reaction as they made a good game of kicking him.

"Even now Eregion is falling," one of them hissed in his ear when they were done. "Once you tell Lord Mairon what you know, their deaths will be more painless. Wouldn't you want that? Where was Celebrimbor sending you? Do you have a message? What does the message say?"

The Sinda stared blankly at him.

"You might want to know the answer to those questions when Lord Mairon comes for you." They gave him one last jolting kick then strode out and away.

The dead girl lingered until she was sure that the guards had left before stepping forward to the prisoner, who sagged in his chains. He did not see her at first, so she waited for him to, silently. In a moment, he seemed to come to his senses and looked about the cell, trying to figure out if he had any chance of escaping. He tried for a mere moment to wrench himself from the chains, but he seemed to know that there was no hope in getting out of them. Then suddenly his gaze wandered to her, and it froze, his eyes widening with shock and disbelief.

"Bassaineth—" he whispered.

The girl's eyes widened, mirroring him, and she nearly fell to her knees. _That was my mother's name._ She opened her mouth but she could find no words to speak, even as a tear slid out of her eye. It was in these times she wished that words did not have to be said, and she would merely know already.

The Sinda turned away, looking to the ground. "No. I cannot be going mad already. . ." His gaze snapped back. "It cannot be. . .it cannot be."

She curled her fingers on the bars, the knuckles turning white, and raised her eyes. "What is your name?" Her voice was shaking, as were her hands. She had not felt this type of connection in a long time.

"Églanim," he told her, as if in a dream. "What—what about you?"

"Taeloth," she said. "My name is Taeloth, daughter of Bassaineth."

 _This ellon was her father._

* * *

 _A/n: Almost at the end of Part Two: Oblivion!_


	57. Chapter II-XXV

CHAPTER XXV

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

When he woke, his wounds stung, burning him even after the time. The Balrog's whip and fire had scorched his skin, blackened and scarred it in some places, and dark blood laced his body. No one had come to tend them. He clenched his jaw and hissed as he tried to shift a little, chains clinking. He was lying awkwardly on his side, hands bound behind him, and his mail had been stripped off him so he had only a thin tunic to warm his back.

"My lord wakes," Annatar said, sliding open the door ever so deftly. No—he was _Sauron_ , he was Mairon, he was so many things—

Tyelpe craned his neck to see, wanting to scream curses at him, yet only managing to break into hacking coughs.

Annatar hefted him up in his arms and dabbed at his bloody lips. "There, there. Broken arm?" he inquired when Tyelpe gasped sharply.

For a moment there was nothing more than laboured breath. Then—

"I want to kill you," Tyelpe said quietly.

Annatar threw back his head and laughed. "Undoubtedly. But you were deceived by the Lord of Deception. You should not be too humiliated."

"Yet you should be."

A dangerous glint came into Annatar's eyes. "Isn't that right? Now I want to know, Tyelpe, where the rest of the rings are. The ones we made together, and the ones you deceived me with."

"No," Tyelpe said.

Annatar sighed. "I can do so much with them, yet you withhold their whereabouts from me. Again I am humiliated by you. Why are you so unafraid?"

"Because I know." Tyelpe spoke quietly at first, then his passion rose with fire and fury. "Because _I know_ , and you do not."

"That is all the reason for you to be afraid." Annatar brushed his hair out of his face, almost lovingly. "Do you know what I can do to you?"

Tyelpe let out a mad cackle. "Yes! Yes, I know. I know so much and yet I know nothing. If you learn anything, Artano, from my death it will be that there is nothing you know. You think you know so much when truly you understand _nothing_. All of your dreams, ambitions, hopes—they are false, treacherous, shameful—you have never known _truth_."

Rage brimmed in his eyes. "How do you think _you_ have the right to say this—"

"Because I did the same and failed. But what is different is that I realized, and you never did. You likely never will—you've been living like this for so long. That saddens me, somehow, to know that. You've lived and will die like this, and perhaps you'll find a way out and live again, the same way. You'll never know." Tyelpe glanced up at Annatar. "Tell me one thing before I die. Is Hith alive?"

Annatar's reply was brusque. "Yes."

Tyelpe let out a sardonic chuckle as he melted into the wall. "She deceived you too. She deceived you and she will deceive you again."

"Funny how you say I know nothing. What you do not know is that my daughter is now the Princess of Morinórë and she helped destroy your country. She gathered the forces in the east—more than I would have ever expected—and gave them to me for my disposal. Without her, I would have never been able to destroy Eregion."

"Eregion is wholly destroyed then," Tyelpe said, defeated.

"Not wholly. Some parts of the city still stand. A group has eluded me, however, and I suppose you know where they are headed."

Tyelpe shook his head. "I have been left in the dark, and I am glad for it." He turned to Annatar. "I watched Hith grow up from a little child to a spirited young elleth. Then I saw what you did to her and watched her decline, little by little. You should be ashamed for what you have done. To your own daughter. And what you did to her—I don't suppose you'll hesitate to do it to me, too. You want something, and you'll kill to get it."

"Playing the virtuous one now, Tyelpe? I watched you kill Nestadren to strengthen your own political power."

"Yes," he said, "and I am dying for it now. It is all I deserve."

"Your bold talks of death annoy me."

"That is what I strive to do."

" _Enough._ " Annatar let him sag in the chains. "Where are the rings?"

Tyelpe said nothing.

"I don't know why I expected you would talk so easily. Do I have to strip you naked and stick hot irons up your ass?"

"Yes, perhaps so."

Annatar's hand shot up, the claws of his wolf-form materializing and digging into his face. "I can do. . .so much, Tyelpe. Don't mock me." The talons dragged downward, leaving blood oozing in their wake. Tyelpe clamped his mouth shut, fighting the urge to cry out, even as his eyes watered and tears of pain ran down his face.

". . .So much."

* * *

— _The Lost Lieutenant—_

Rhystórë was glad he was not part of the host that had been sent to destroy the capital city of Eregion, though once he might have welcomed it. Once he had been a young Númenórean boy with a thirst for battle and blood and a dream to become a knight of the king, yet now—he scarcely remembered his role as lieutenant. He wondered if his dear brother Belyswë regretted what he had done, wondered if anyone from before remembered or even missed him. The girl Nythiel, the handmaid, did she remember him? She would have never liked him, anyway; he was a. . .different person then. She would remember him as a vile person.

The water was cold by the time he stepped out of the bathhouse, wringing water from his now Wainrider-length hair. The bathhouse was generally there for the use of the guards and the servants of Lúmë-mindon, but it was quite unoccupied at this late hour. As he donned his boots, he realized he had become so much of a Wainrider he doubted he could revert wholly into a Númenórean if he had to go back someday. He'd like to see on Belyswë's face, though, when he materialized before him alive and a Wainrider. That would be amusing.

Strapping his spear on his back, Rhystórë stood and headed out of the bathhouse to his post before Khamûl's tent. He hoped one of the guards there now would be willing to switch shifts—he was technically supposed to be someplace else but he wanted to see how Khalentharia was doing. It seemed that every night she and her brother were arguing about something, and after seeing how Khamûl had framed Hrysívë, he could scarcely trust him.

"It's so cold out here tonight," Rhystórë told the guard. He was trying so hard to put an impression of indifference. "Don't you want to go warm your feet next to a toasty fire?"

The guard glanced at him, slightly annoyed, and said nothing.

Rhystórë decided to get to the point. "I can take over your shift."

"Ëaruilë, is it?" the guard said, scoffing. "That's amusing. Lord Khamûl would like to see you, in fact. He summoned a handmaid to find you but it seems you showed up here yourself. Why don't you go in and see what he wants?"

Rhystórë raised his brow. "Interesting."

"Quite, isn't it?"

"Indeed." Rhystórë made to go in then turned back. "When my business is finished, I can take your shift."

"Do whatever you like," was the guard's reply.

He shrugged and ducked into the tent just as Khalentharia screamed, "You should have killed her yourself!" and Khamûl slapped her.

"My lord," Rhystórë said, stepping forward. He did not know what Khamûl might do next.

Both of their heads snapped to face him, their chests heaving, their eyes wide with indignation. It was Khamûl who composed himself first.

"Why, _Ëaruilë,_ " he said coldly. "Amusing yourself and ignoring my summons?"

"In fact your summons never reached me, my lord. I came here thinking to take over the night shift when your guard on post told me that you seek my presence." Rhystórë found it difficult to be so steady after walking into such a situation; his words came out drawled and forced. "What do you need?"

"Lord Mairon has a task for you." Khamûl turned away from him and began to pace the tent. Khalentharia still stood where she had been, eyes like daggers fixed on her brother.

"Lord Mairon?"

"Must you repeat everything I say like a fool, Ëaruilë? Indeed, Lord Mairon as a task, and he would like you to complete it."

Rhystórë waited.

"He would like you to deliver some gifts of his to your brother in Lond Daer, if you have not forgotten your identity as a Númenórean," Khamûl said. "He has acquired some trinkets from our new prisoner, the whore of Eregion."

"Celebrimbor?"

"Again you wish to sound like a fool. The whore of Eregion has given up the whereabouts of the lesser rings. They had been given to a Naugrim in Moria for safekeeping, and we have only just gone to retrieve them. It seemed he had an old friend there—Narvi, I've heard. Wonder what happened to that one."

Khalentharia turned a little from where she stood, arms crossed. "Watch how you curve your tongue, brother."

"And I'd watch where you put your tongue," Khamûl drawled, "and how you use it."

Rhystórë bit his lip. "How soon?"

"Lord Mairon is impatient. He would not even give the trinkets to me. I suppose you should go. . .find out for yourself."

Khalentharia stepped forward. "I'll do you a favor, dear brother, and accompany him to Lond Daer."

Slowly Khamûl turned to her. "A favor."

"You'd be glad to be rid of my presence, and I would be too." She picked up a dagger from the table and studied it. "Wouldn't you be?" She flipped the blade in her hand and stuck it into a sheath at her belt.

"Do what you like," Khamûl said, then fixed his eyes back on Rhystórë. "Get out of here."

Khalentharia strode forward and gripped his arm. "Come on."

* * *

— _The Dead Girl—_

"My mother—what was she like?" she asked.

Églanim's gaze was cast up to the ceiling, a demeanour filled with lost dreams and broken hopes. "I—I can scarcely remember. Child, I am not who you think I am. I am not who you wish me to be. . ."

"I know," she said. "Trust me, I know. Truly, I wondered if it was right for me to speak to you like this. After all, it is because of you that I am here. It is because of you that my life took the turn it did. I lived my entire life hating you, hating you for what you did to my mother that I never met."

She remembered what she had told Lady Híthriel all those years back in Mithlond. _My mother was wounded from the battle, but was healed by another ellon whom she fell in love with. He broke her heart, however, and she jumped off a cliff shortly after birthing me._ But Lady Híthriel had turned out to be false too.

Églanim turned his eyes to her. "I regret what I did."

"I should hope so. I hated my mother too, for leaving me the way she did. How could she be so weak to give her life away and leave her child alone in the world?"

"She was young," Églanim murmured. "She knew very little. She thought I was real."

"I made the same mistakes she did, then. You know, when I was little, I wanted to be a soldier—the greatest in all of Lindon. I wanted to serve the High King himself and be in his royal guard."

"But because of me, you could not." Églanim exhaled and leaned back on the wall, chains clanking.

"Because of you," she said. "You must have known for a long time that dreams are false."

"I grew up that way. I grew up knowing that. It was something not to be questioned, and it was always there." He closed his eyes. "What are you going to do after I die?"

"Why do you expect that I won't try to save you?"

"Because there is no point," Églanim said.

She leaned back on the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest, and gazed impassively forward. "I don't know. I really don't know what I'm going to do with myself."

Églanim sighed. "Poor child."

"Were you deserting when you rode out from Ost-in-Edhil?"

He pursed his lips. "In fact, no. But I'm not surprised that you would think of me that way."

"Then where were you going?"

"Lindórinand," Églanim said. "I had a message."

"So you _weren't_ deserting, then," she mused. "Perhaps you are more different of a person than I had anticipated. Am I expected to call you Father now?"

Églanim winced. "Dear Valar, that sounds odd. Really, I'd prefer not."

She smiled a little. "All right then."

There was the sound of sullied water dripping from some old ceiling, and the distant scuttle of rats plagued the sewers below.

"I—I have a favor to ask you," Églanim said quietly.

"Hm."

"Lindórinand. Will you go in my stead?"

She shifted in her position. "I had expected you to ask that of me. You're quite predictable, you know."

"Taeloth, I—I know I have no—"

"In my mind, I had already been thinking of agreeing," she said. "There is no need to convince me."

Églanim sighed. "Thank you. There are no words I can say to express my gratitude." He shifted to the side. "At my belt. Take it."

She leaned forward to unclasp the package from his belt then undid the straps to find a silver ring glinting in her hand, made of mithril and set with a white stone of adamant.

"Nenya," Églanim told her. "The Ring of Water."


	58. Chapter II-XXVI

CHAPTER XXVI

* * *

— _Daughter of Winter—_

The tents of the Wainriders lingered beneath the waning dusk, Lúmë-mindon only a little away from the camp. Guards with torches surrounded the perimeter, and I approached them slowly, my cloak wrapped tightly around myself.

"Who goes there?" one of them barked, raising his torch and unsheathing his sword with a _ring_. Silver steel glinted in the moonlight.

I stepped forward and lowered my hood, saying nothing. The guard frowned yet did not sheathe his sword, only lowering it uncertainly.

"Your Highness," he said, inclining his head. "I did not see your face."

Still with no words on my lips, I lifted my eyes to meet the guard's in a silent command. He shifted a little to let me pass, and it was only now he sheathed his sword, dipping his head again. I went quietly into the camp to Insangar's tent—they were always set up in the same orderly fashion so there was no searching I had to do.

He was cleaning his dirk when I found him. Truthfully I expected him to be with one of those other concubines he claimed to have that day he came to Lúmë-mindon to seal the treaty and the marriage. But that, surprisingly, seemed not to be the case. It took a few moments for him to notice me, but it was not long before he did.

"Hrysívë." He set the dirk down and rose, stepping forward and taking my hand swiftly as if he were afraid I would vanish. "You're here."

I said nothing and stared into his eyes. Perhaps there was something in that gaze that could drive guilt into him and ask him why.

"Hrysívë, what you think I did—that wasn't what I did. I'm sorry, though, I'm sorry for what you think I did."

"Do you know what you did?" I said quietly.

"Khamûl. He told me he had you and he would kill you if I did not testify. He told me you would have had a better fate to face the punishment of your crimes than to die."

My voice was a mere whisper. "Did he now?"

Insangar sighed. "I want us to put this behind. I want us to—"

"Pretend it never happened?" I laughed. "Did you know that you are indeed very amusing? Give me a reason that will convince me that you did not want to be rid of me in that moment you testified against me in that court. Give me a reason or do not, and pretend there was never any past to forget. Pretend your little tale is true, and use it against Khamûl. Spin that little tale before the court and be rid of him, too, because oh—what a nuisance he is, always in your way. Don't you think?"

"Hrysívë. . ."

"What now? What more do you want? For now, I'll let your little tale spin true, but I warn you—it is so fragile, so weak. It can break at any given moment. I'm sure you know that, don't you?" I tightened the fingers gripping onto his arm and leaned close into his ear. "I know what you have been meaning to do."

Insangar did not shift. "What?" The word was not a question, something more of a prompter, for me to tell him what I knew.

"You want more power in the court because you wish to usurp Mairon's position," I said, "or you wish to get somewhere close to it."

"These are dangerous words you speak. Dangerous words."

"Do you think I do not know that? You're very amusing, Chieftain. Do you not know who I am? Where my allegiance lies?"

"I have guessed," he said, "but no one will know until the end, will they?"

I laughed again. "No—no one will know until the very end." I stepped back and crossed my arms. "I tried to poison you? What was that all about? Who told you about my blood?"

"Khamûl, evidently."

"Oh really?" My lips tilted up in a bitter smile, and I slid back a step, my arms lifting into an elegant pose. "Would you like me to dance for you again? Like our wedding night?" My right leg swept back in a _rond de jambe_ and my arms shifted from a first to a third _arabesque_. "You'll make me your Queen, won't you? If you do succeed?"

"I have no such thought," Insangar said. "Not to rise that high."

"Hm." I arched back, my arms in third and my leg in _tendu_ before me. "That's very amusing too." I stepped forward, drawing so near that our breath mingled in the cold night. He flinched back a little. "Don't you fret. I'm not going to poison you. You are my husband, and husband and wife are supposed to trust and love each other more than anything else in the world. And we do that. We abide to the rules, and they all see that, don't they?"

"They do," he murmured, and leaned in for the kiss.

I let out a subdued laugh. "Haven't you heard the commoners' talk?"

"What do they say?" He spoke against my neck, a breathless whisper.

"They wish for us to get back together and lead the Wainriders to victory as we once did," I told him. "And they speak. . .they speak of dark times, and an impending war."

"There is always war," Insangar said.

"Indeed, yes, but they wish for us to have an heir, perhaps before it is too late. Ah, they will be so extremely disappointed if it is a daughter. . ."

"Hrysívë," he began.

"Hm?"

"I did not think you would want to do this," he said. "You've always—"

"I don't," I said. "I don't want this. Will you make them believe? Without letting it happen? Will you? For me?"

"Believe?" He did not comprehend.

"Just let them believe that we abide to the rules. Do you remember the rules?" I inquired.

"Remember? Yes. We'll let them see."

"I just want to know. . ." I said quietly.

"What?"

"Do you?" I asked. "Do you love me?"

"Like a lover," he said, and leaned in to kiss me again.

I pushed him away softly and looked at him directly in the eyes. "I think you need to know what you did to me." Slowly, I turned and revealed the jagged remains of my wings, the dried, crusted blood now all cleaned from the skin, though it scarcely looked any better.

"This is what you did to me," I whispered. "Did you know that?"

* * *

— _The Dead Girl—_

 _People are not always what they seem,_ Nínquë had told her. _Trust no one._ She wished she had known that since the beginning, then perhaps she would not have come here with Mairon. That was a small, waning part of her, however; a greater part of her longed to do more, screamed for vengeance, for blood. She would do it slowly, so slowly, like how Mairon had taught her, so that they would never even notice before she struck.

She glanced over her shoulder even as a bit of water sloshed over the edge of her pail and tickled her bare feet. Rats scuttled in the sewers beneath the ground and within the walls. Every scratch and slip of their claws had her looking backward. Their sounds were omnipresent, all around her, but she never knew where they were.

"Églanim," she said, urgently. She set the pail on the ground, more water sloshing over, and pressed her face between the bars. "Églanim."

His face was bloody—the guards' work. "Taeloth?" he murmured, eyes flickering. "Why did you come back?"

"I'm going to get you out of here, Églanim, that's why I'm back. I came back. . ." He was beginning to doze off so she called to him sharply. "Églanim! I came back. I came back for you. I'm not going to leave you here, I promise."

Suddenly he started, eyes shooting to the corridor. "They're coming. . ."

She fumbled for her pail, again spilling the water, and began to frantically scrub a stain of dried blood on the ground, trying to get as far away as possible. Scooting backwards, she left a trail of cloudy water on the ground and hid herself behind a pile of crates.

The _click_ ing of crisp footsteps upon the ground drew nearer until the possessor of the steps came forth and revealed himself. Mairon. He would know she was here if he were looking for her, but she doubted he would. She was a dead girl, anyway, and she didn't matter at all anymore. Mairon was evidently in a temper as he crossed the chamber and snapped open the prison door. Eyes blazing and restless, he walked faster than his usual lazy gait.

"I have no time for games any longer," he said, jerking on the chain so Églanim was wrenched into an upright position. "Tell me— _now_ —where was Tyelpe sending you and what message were you bringing?"

"The guards have searched me. I have nothing." Églanim was astonishingly calm, unafraid on the outside. "What you seek either never existed, or is now gone." _He is telling me to leave before it is too late._ She didn't have Nenya with her, however; she had left it back at the cave with Athaeben.

Mairon clenched his jaw, pursing his lips. "I have no time for you to mock me, I have no time for your games, I have no time for _any of this_. It must be over now." He slammed his fist upon the wall, splitting his knuckles, and drew in a shuddering breath. Blood ran over his hand and dripped onto the ground, staining the wall as it fell. "Where. What. Why."

"I have no answers for you," Églanim said. "You've lost. You've lost long ago, when you—"

Mairon raised his arm and struck him full in the face, again and again, drawing blood and splitting teeth. Taeloth had to shove a fist in her mouth to keep from screaming.

"Have you any answers now?" Mairon hissed. Églanim's blood had spurted onto his face, flecking it with scarlet. " _Have you?"_

Somehow Églanim could still laugh. "No." His voice was mocking. "No, my lord."

A terrible wrath rose from within Mairon and he locked both hands on Églanim's jaw and wrenched up and down at the same time, a hideous _crack_ stabbing through the chamber. Then suddenly there was blood pooling out of his mouth and Mairon threw a severed tongue onto the floor, the red pink thing skidding on the ground and muddling with the grime.

"No answers now, I suppose," Mairon spat. "And likewise no use."

Églanim was on his knees, coughing up blood, eyes dilated with shock. He made an attempt to spit out the blood but only more gushed out, laced with saliva that stuck to his mouth.

Mairon bent down, his tender façade vanishing as if it had never once existed, and seized his throat. "You really liked to talk, once, didn't you? I'm tempted to let you live just to _suffer_ this pain. How does it feel to be smothered like this? Do you know what I feel now, Elda?" He released his grip and stepped back. "Enjoy the. . .remnant of your life."

He departed then, and never looked back.

Églanim's mouth was open in a soundless scream, scalding tears streaming down his face. He seemed to have forgotten Taeloth and Nenya and his task and had simply gone mad. She wanted to go to him, to tell him that she was going to get him out and everything was going to be all right, but the guards came, complaining of his cries. It was incessant—the indecipherable moaning and whimpering and pleading would never stop, and it lingered in her head, always there, always there—

"Put him out of his misery," the guard said, and the other agreed and walking over, dragged the knife across his throat.

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

She had not breathed free air in six weeks. During that time, two rebellions had erupted and swept through the ship. But they were surrounded with water, and when fire is surrounded with water, it is smothered and killed—there is nowhere for it to spread.

Narbeleth wondered where Hinaeryn was, if she had gone after her. Maybe she had died in the battle in Amon Lanc like so many forgotten bodies piled on top of each other, left to burn. Ningloren had died too—the ellon Hinaeryn had married. Narbeleth saw him. He had been trying to protect her from a bend of assaulting orcs and shouted at her to run. That was the last time she had seen him. As she ran, she heard a bursting cry and looked back to see him slammed to his knees, an axe sticking out of his back. The second blow took half his head off.

The evening man came in and threw them a bucket of stale yams. A horde of children with groping dirty hands reached for them greedily, blooming like a squirming grey flower. Narbeleth stayed back, waiting for the scraps though she knew there would be none. Farothon remained too—last time he had grown so sick he had retched up all his food on her. They both lost their appetite after that.

Narbeleth's stomach growled. The evening man didn't really come in the evening; Narbeleth just liked to believe it to be that way. Did he even come every day? They never knew when—if. Her quenched desire was shoved aside and she stood, pushing her way to the bucket. She managed only to get a strip of skin by the time it was all over, and hobbled back to her corner next to Farothon. _We live as animals, and no one even cares about it anymore._

It was when the voracious children were tearing away at the food that the horn blared for the first time in six weeks. At first, some did not notice yet eventually they were all glancing up, some unsure if they had been hearing things and others disbelieving.

"Did you hear that?" Farothon sat up, eyes wide. "Did you hear—"

It came again. _Aaaaaaaoooooooooooooo. . ._

They were beginning to stand, the food forgotten, a new hope rising in their hearts. There was a certain faith that had not yet been stamped out of the young.

"What does it mean?" Farothon was saying.

Narbeleth stood and turned to him slowly. "Númenor—we are here."

* * *

— _Tyelpe—_

"You have blood on your hands," Tyelpe said when Mairon entered. He was weak, and so tired of fighting, but he was determined to mock Mairon until the end.

"It seems you will tell me nothing. It seems no one will." Mairon had his back to him. "Oh, but I have waited so long. . .a little more than a month now has passed, and I am quite impressed that you still manage to mock me. Perhaps that was because I ripped your poor emissary's tongue out. No answers for me now."

"Églanim. His name is Églanim."

"Was." Mairon turned. "The guards killed him in the night for all the moaning." He took a few steps and crouched down before Tyelpe. "Would you talk if I made you an eunuch?"

Anger seized Tyelpe and threatened to throttle him. "I doubt it."

"I have decided something, Tyelpe. Aren't you glad? I know now that I do not need your trinkets to win this war."

"You never did," Tyelpe said. "I only made them to irk you."

"Careful what you do with your tongue, Tyelpe."

"Or you'll do to me what you did to Églanim? I think not. You would not kill me."

Mairon sighed. "Wouldn't you like to see the sky again? It's snowing outside. So beautiful. I yearned to feel the earth—the real, pulsing, beating earth again—when they locked me in, refusing to let me out. And when I finally fled Aman to Endórë, I tasted freedom for the first time. It was so beautiful."

"They? The Valar, of course."

"Indeed. Then we nearly won. We were so close. . .but the Valar came and we failed."

"And now you're alone, aren't you? _You_ are the one. _You_ are alone."

"Yes. . ." Mairon inhaled. "Yes."

"You wouldn't kill me, would you?"

Mairon leaned forward, so close that their breath mingled, easing the knife, almost gently, into his chest. "No."

The end of the knife hit the wall.

* * *

 _A/n: Last chapter of Part Two! Please let me know what you think!_

 _And today happens to be my birthday...I'm turning sixteen :)_

 _Surely that was great chapter to post on a birthday_


	59. Part Three: Downfall

Part Three: Downfall

* * *

When Sauron learned of the repentance and revolt of Celebrimbor his disguise fell and his wrath was revealed, and gathering a great force he moved over Calenardhon to the invasion of Eriador in the year 1695. When news of this reached Gil-galad he sent out a force under Elrond Half-elven; but Elrond had far to go, and Sauron turned north and made at once for Eregion. The scouts and vanguard of Sauron's host were already approaching when Celeborn made a sortie and drove them back; but though he was able to join his force to that of Elrond they could not return to Eregion, for Sauron's host was far greater than theirs, great enough both to hold them off and closely to invest Eregion.

At last the attackers broke into Eregion with ruin and devastation, and captured the chief object of Sauron's assault, the House of the Mírdain, where were their smithies and their treasures. Celebrimbor, desperate, himself withstood Sauron on the steps of the great door of the Mírdain; but he was grappled and taken captive, and the House was ransacked. There Sauron took the Nine Rings and other lesser works of the Mírdain; but the Seven and the Three he could not find.

Then Celebrimbor was put to torment, and Sauron learned from him where the Seven were bestowed. This Celebrimbor revealed, because neither the Seven nor the Nine did he value as he valued the Three; the Seven and the Nine were made with Sauron's aid, whereas the Three were made by Celebrimbor alone, with a different power and purpose. Concerning the Three Rings Sauron could learn nothing from Celebrimbor; and he had him put to death. But he guessed the truth, that the Three had been committed to Elvish guardians: and that must mean to Galadriel and Gil-galad.

In black anger he turned back to battle; and bearing as a banner Celebrimbor's body hung upon a pole, shot through with Orc-arrows, he turned upon the forces of Elrond. Elrond had gathered such a few of the Elves of Eregion as had escaped, but he had no force to withstand the onset. He would indeed have been overwhelmed had not Sauron host been attacked in the rear; for Durin sent out a force of Dwarves from Khazad-dûm, and with them came Elves of Lórinand led by Amroth. Elrond was able to extricate himself, but he was forced away northwards, and it was at that time that he established a refuge and stronghold at Imladris. Sauron withdrew the pursuit of Elrond and turned upon the Dwarves and the Elves of Lórinand, whom he drove back; but the Gates of Moria were shut, and he could not enter. Ever afterwards Moria had Sauron's hate, and all Orcs were commanded to harry Dwarves whenever they might.

* * *

—J.R.R. Tolkien, _Unfinished Tales,_ "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn: Concerning Galadriel and Celeborn."


	60. Chapter III-I

CHAPTER I

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

There were sacrifices to be made. There were always sacrifices to be made.

If you avoided it, you would only end up returning back to it in an unfailingly revolving cycle, like an illness that you pretend is not there. When you were young, you might have waved it off and say it is of no matter, but once you grow older you begin to feel those sentiments of regret. There is so much regret when you age, when the burdens that fall upon you weigh so much they threaten to crush you. Perhaps that is why they tell you to live life with no regrets, though I myself I deem it quite difficult. It might even be said to be _impossible—_ could that even be true?

They once told us as children that we could do anything if we strove hard enough. Dreams, they were called. Were they true? Often when I was younger, I would muse on this and think so much. I scarcely do that anymore. I think I should probably do it a little more, just a little. Be like before again.

Not this again, not the fleeting memories. Why must they be so _fleeting_? Why can't they last longer? I want to bathe in this old feeling, cleanse myself in it, be reborn. Be a child again...did I really want to be a child again? Then I would have forgotten everything that had happened and I would not be who I was. I wonder if I appreciate my history. Though I do not love who I am, there is something that makes that right, and that essence is change.

Did I really say that? I hadn't thought...I didn't know...

So many questions.

Eregion fell in S.A. 1697. It fell when Mairon commanded for Tyelpe's body, shot through with arrows, to be used as a banner in the last days of that first battle. The mere order of that brought a new level of cruelty and loss of morality into his war against the Eldalië. There were some lengths that were better not to be taken, yet Mairon had taken them. They were a choice, quite self-inflicted. Perhaps if he had not done that the Eldalië would not have cowered and retreated from the battlefield, and perhaps Eregion would not be so destroyed that it could not rise again.

At first I did not realize it, but Tyelpe had been the last direct descendant of Fëanor, and when he died, there was something that left the tangible world. There was a little girl I had met in the Dagor Bragollach that would not believe that her brother was dead because she thought she would have felt it, she would have known. Yet sometimes, there is nothing to feel. Only emptiness. Perhaps even a tinge of regret, if you did not think their life had been lived well.

The news came to me when I was alone in the Chieftain's tent, written in a letter from Atharys. I don't think anyone else would have told me; I would have had to discover it on my own, and that, maybe, would have been more painful. I don't know for sure, though. Somehow I thought that Atharys must have crumpled the paper and rewritten it several times, as the letter was so orderly. The sentences were short yet not too clipped, and they did not seem indifferent either. I wasn't sure what to think of any of it. I think I already knew that Tyelpe was going to die, and I wasn't going to do anything about it.

Atharys told me Églanim had too perished in the dungeons, but he did not tell me how or why. I suppose I could guess enough. Sometimes it is better to not know the truth, though when I was younger I always thought I needed to know. I wondered if Atharys had watched them die himself.

It had been months now since the letter, and Mairon's resolve to conquer Eriador did not lessen. With the Fall of Eregion, he had only grown more ambitious, a ravenous vampire thirsting for blood. He had been sending out small parties throughout the lands, slaying or drawing off all the small groups of Atani and hunting the remaining Eldalië, ironically by my counsel. Do you not see—only if he does this, his desire will grow too large for his capacity, and furthermore, the ones who escape will go to Imladris, and there their sense of nationalism can be born and they might at last be united into one last alliance. Yet at that, I remembered Nelyo's Union and contemplated about some things.

I tried to justify myself; I tried to tell myself that what I was doing was the only way, but I had strayed and lost myself along the way, making the entire process fruitless. All of that work for nothing, only to slowly deteriorate inside until the end. Interesting, isn't it? Hoping for change will do nothing.

I had not realized that the candle had burned so low until Insangar entered the tent and commented on it. Absently, I glanced up to sweep over his face, yet I was not truly looking at him.

"Are you ready?" he inquired, looking away and going for his cloak.

Unwillingly I peeled my gaze away from nothing and spoke. "I have been."

Insangar finished dressing himself and stood beside me. I had been sitting on the cushion, staring into the looking-glass. "You look beautiful tonight."

"It is not meant to be." I shifted from my stoic position and rose to my feet. "Have the horses been saddled?"

"Yes. They are waiting outside," Insangar said, doubt evident on his expression from my vague words. He wanted to ask, I could tell, but why would I tell him?

Snow was falling from the grey sky when we emerged from the tent. There was a slight bit of wind too, so it fell at an angle, drifting so lightly and daintily.

My mare snorted, fidgeting a little in the snow, as I approached and mounted. Khamûl had probably already gone on ahead of us; they were nowhere to be seen. It was only Insangar and I riding out to Lúmë-mindon from the camp half a league away from the tower for a assembly Mairon had called. It seemed he had made more decisions alone and wished for them to be carried out. I wondered how long that would last.

The horses trotted forward, blinking and tossing their heads when the snow fell into their eyes. It happened to me as well, so I lowered my head and drew my hood over me. Insangar, however, stared directly forward, unblinking and unmoving, and it seemed to me he was thinking of something far away and lost to him.

Mairon, ostensibly, had deemed it acceptable to begin his melodramatic monologue without Insangar and I, for we entered just in time to see him slam his fist down upon a map of Endórë and say, "Lórinand can wait."

"I'm sure they can," I said, making a point to let him know he had indeed begun without us. "They would not at all be joyed to have their realm besieged, would they?"

Mairon looked up, as did all else in the room: Atharys, Tiríssë, Angaino, Khamûl, and Undanya, though the latter two scarcely bothered to move. "Hrysívë. You have graced us with your presence."

I dipped my head and gestured to Insangar. "We have. And if I may speak, I might say that besieging Lindon would be of more use than Lórinand."

Mairon was evidently displeased with my manners, but he was interested and prompted me to go on. That was all I needed. "And why do you say so?"

"Lórinand has a small army and is scarcely even a threat to us," I said. "Lindon, on the other hand, is ruled by the High King of the Noldor, Gil-galad, descendant of Finwë Ñoldóran and Ñolofinwë Aracáno. They have a large and prestigious army. If they had had the time to come to Eregion's aid, perhaps the tables might have turned. They would have begun preparing for an assault long ago, and if we could catch them at unawares, cut their supply off, we would be at a great advantage."

Tiríssë, the Maia of vigilance, nodded his head in concurrence. "There is reason to this argument. It is not likely that Lórinand will attack at all. What we could do is send informers there to slowly destroy their supplies so it is not very discernable. We want them to think we are focusing all of our effort on Lindon."

"Tyelpe must have given the Three to Lindon, but one is likely in Lórinand too. He would spread them out. Those we must acquire. To that there is no question," Mairon said. He was speaking very briskly and his breath was short. There was so much of this in him lately. "Insangar, to that you are in charge."

Insangar inclined his head. "It is an honor, my lord."

Mairon turned away and moved on. I observed them all as they spoke, but most of all I observed myself. I had to know what I was going to do—that was the most dangerous thing. And again and again in my head, I found myself trying to justify what I was doing. Always the justifications, always. Hate and love, what is the difference?

This is the only way. _What else can I do?_

* * *

— _The Emissary—_

Again it was snowing, like the first day they had returned to Lúmë-mindon. Rhystórë eased his horse to a gradual halt and glanced up to watch the flaky white stuff drift down and fall upon his gloves, such a contrast to the black leather. Khalentharia, a little ahead of him, noticed his pause and wheeled her horse around back to him. He had been trying to keep his mind away from how beautiful she looked with the snow mingled with her dark hair, unfortunately to no avail. Glancing at her skittishly, he adjusted his gloves and tightened his fingers on his reins.

"What is it?" Khalentharia asked.

Rhystórë spurred his horse back upon the path. "Nothing." Truly, he had been thinking about Belyswë and his father and his mother whom he had never met. He imagined what Belyswë's reaction would be at his return, but soon realized he somehow could not say. He figured Belyswë had changed so much from the boy he had known him as that perhaps even his actions were unpredictable now. Taking upon the title of the Lord of Lond Daer would have changed him. Rhystórë wondered how their father had died. _Did you feel any remorse, Belyswë, when you killed him and usurped his position? Was is all for the gold?_ Everything was about money. The world revolved around money.

Khalentharia let the matter go and fell in beside him, their horses going forward in a moderate trot. Rhystórë made a vast effort to keep his eyes directly forward and fixed on the grey horizon, and this time he managed to succeed.

Before they had left Morinórë, Rhystórë went to visit Mairon in Lúmë-mindon as Khamûl had instructed him. It seemed Mairon was wholly unprepared for it, or perhaps that was only because he had a council meeting that day. However it had happened, he was plainly prickly that day, though Rhystórë later heard that had been his mood as of late. He supposed that would only seem right with the constant thought of war wheeling through all their heads.

There were three rings of the nine Mairon had given him. Rhystórë was commanded to give one to Belyswë and the two others to Númenórean lords who came over the sea. It would be most advantageous if those lords planned to return to Númenor sometime soon. The wildfire would always spread, wouldn't it?

Another hour passed that Rhystórë and Khalentharia rode in silence. The sky seemed to never brighten, never dim in his eyes but Rhystórë took it upon himself to guide the horses to a resting place for the night. Khalentharia was actually better at spotting those things, though Rhystórë tried.

Khalentharia said nothing as she eventually began leading them to places in the thickets where the snow would not find them. She was born and raised in the wild, and she would live there forever, Rhystórë hoped, unless the Wainrider culture failed and they became something more like servants of Morinórë. The Wainriders valued their freedom; it would not be a bloodless fight.

"Firewood," she said, pointing to him. "Water," she said, pointing to herself. Then without another word she stalked off into the trees.

Rhystórë figured he was accustomed to her curt demeanor by now and promptly began with his task, though his mind wandered to other matters. Mairon was likely tracking their progress; he didn't know how, but it was quite unlikely he would leave him with the rings just like that. If this was a fairytale, Rhystórë would have liked to run away into the wild and never return to this land. He would go south, perhaps, to Harad and explore the lands even further down than those realms. Suddenly he had the sensation he wanted to travel far and wide, and see different people and be like them for a day or two. To do that he had to be water, and it seemed water could flow anywhere but the desert, which was the south. Or so he thought. He wasn't quite sure what the geography of this continent was, to tell the truth, as he never paid attention in his schooling years in Númenor.

They finished their tasks at about the same time—as Rhystórë was dumping all the dry wood he could find in a pile, Khalentharia returned, heavy waterskins dangling in her hands.

"Know how to light a fire, Númenórean?" she said, handing a waterskin to him.

"As one might expect."

She kept staring at him, waiting. "Expect what?"

"As one might expect, yes," he corrected. "Is that satisfactory for you?"

Khalentharia beamed naughtily, in that wicked way that made him want to say something else to make her smile again. "Well truly, I thought Númenóreans were so poorly educated they knew nothing of lighting fires. You are the son of a lord, aren't you? Tell me about it. I would expect that you had handmaids and servants to do everything you wanted them to do...oh, and also because I would want to know how Númenóreans work before I get there."

Rhystórë organized his pile of dry leaves, bark, and grass, and fished out his piece of flint. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything. Everything. I need to be wholly prepared."

"Do you now?" Rhystórë inclined his head to the side like an animal. "Perhaps there is something quite valuable that you should learn then...the art of improvisation."

She punched him playfully. "You are playing for time."

"I am always playing for time," he said, and sighed. "I don't have very much to say. I was a lieutenant of Númenor to Gil-galad before my brother deceived me and framed me for treason, landing me in prison for a few years. Then in that time my father somehow died, making my brother the Lord of Lond Daer, and other things likely happened that I do not know of, and His Highness, the Prince of Morinórë Atharys, came to get me the night before my execution at the command of High Lord Mairon...that you all know."

"Did I?" Khalentharia said. "Tell me, Númenórean, were you an absolute son of a bitch before you met me? I feel like you are the type that would be a son of a bitch."

Rhystórë raised his brow, glanced at her, turned back to the fire, and said, "Yes."

She threw her head back and laughed. "I knew it. I _knew_ it!"

"You did," Rhystórë said bluntly.

"Tell me more," she said. "Tell me about Númenor."

So he told her, and for that night they recounted old tales of that land across the sea. Rhystórë wondered once if he would ever return there, and the thought bothered him incessantly ever since.

In the morning they rose and mounted their horses, continuing the travel west to Lond Daer. During the riding, he realized that Khalentharia had pressed so many questions on him that he never had the proper chance to ask about her. He supposed it was a sadder tale than his, though, and perhaps she did not wish to recount it.


	61. Chapter III-II

CHAPTER II

* * *

— _The Sojourner—_

 _I'm sorry for everything._

That was it. Four black words upon a white paper, terse yet not curt. It was the truth, and there was nothing more to it.

Taeloth read over the words again, studying the way the Tengwar curved and how come faded away at the ends and some ended deep and dark. She wondered if Églanim, her _father_ —the word still sounded so odd—had known what was on it when Tyelpe presented him with the task of delivering it to Lórinand. She wondered what else it was exactly that Tyelpe had done; it seemed there was something more behind all of this, something like a needle that went deep below the skin and pierced your veins.

That had been last night, when she had decided.

Now it was Athaeben that trudged over the hill and looked across the terrain. "The village of Nindhras."

Taeloth made her way up beside the elleth and gazed out at a grey city half-shrouded in fog, the buildings either piss yellow or bleach white. "You are sure they have fresh horses here? It looks as if it would fall apart the moment I set foot upon it."

"People will do anything if you have the coin," Athaeben said. "I know of an inn we can stay in."

In the streets there were sunken-eyed children clutching onto the legs of their gaunt-faced mothers, wrapping thin weathered cloaks around themselves that did nothing against the gale. They all turned their gazes to stare haughtily at Taeloth as she paused. Nonetheless, the innkeep turned out to be kind enough, nothing like the rest of the scowling people passing by.

"They are afraid," Athaeben said as they sat down in the common room, waiting for supper to be served. "They are afraid that now Ost-in-Edhil has fallen, Morinórë will come and sweep the rest of Eregion into destruction."

Taeloth glanced at the tall cloaked man slipping in through the door. "They look as if they have always been like this."

"Yes, but more so now." Athaeben clasped her hands together and rested her chin upon them, leaning forward. "Why the suddenness to go to Lórinand?"

Taeloth broke her gaze, looking down at the wooden patterns of the table. "I did not ask you to come with me." She had almost said _Norkáwen._ Speaking so normally seemed somehow strange to Taeloth now; she wondered how she was able to put on this mask so quickly. Perhaps there would be many other masks she had to meld into, and this was merely one of the first. Morinórë had made her into Norkáwen, and there was no unmaking that. Forever there would be that part within her, fighting to take over the other fruitless façades.

"My, that sounded rude," Athaeben remarked, and she seemed about to say more, but an ellon sauntered over to their table, holding a mug of ale.

"If it isn't dear Dolaetha," the ellon said. "What brings you back in Nindhras, sweetling?"

"Tonight I am merely passing through. We will be gone by morning."

The ellon raised his brow. "Truly? Shall I buy some ale for you and the girl?"

Athaeben smiled sweetly, fluttering her lashes in such a way that had the ellon leaning forward. "If you so wish."

When the ellon had gone shouting for the innkeep, Taeloth turned to Athaeben. "Come here often?"

"No. Only twice."

"Interesting. If you want to know my purpose, I suggest we don't talk about it here. Now I wonder, who did you last meet here?" She realized suddenly that she was speaking like how the people of the court of Morinórë would speak to her and immediately loathed it. _How else do I know to be?_

"Oh, that is an amusing story. A bright-haired ellon, very lustrous, golden hair. Quite conspicuous. Somewhat foolish. Didn't know that I knew who he was until the end."

"Who was he?"

"That I can't say... _here_." Athaeben gave her a knowing look, a slight sparkle in her eyes. "You said it first, didn't you? Don't you remember where we are?"

It was then that the ellon returned, balancing mugs of ale on a tray. "As requested, Dolaetha."

Again Athaeben smiled that mischievous smile. "Your own offer."

"Of course," he murmured.

Taeloth left the mug and went slowly, almost heavily, grudgingly, to their reserved room. Her hand slipped to the hidden knife at her hip, the one Athaeben given to her when they left the cave and set on their way to Nindhras. She found herself doubtful and frightened without it, and now it seemed she leaned upon this device like a crutch; without it, she could not walk. She was nothing.

She was staring into the stone-cold hearth, gripping her knife with both hands, when Athaeben returned a few hours later.

"We have horses," she said.

"And yet we had no coin."

Now Athaeben gave her that smile and hung her cloak upon the wall. "I have my ways."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

"Forward," the man grunted, shoving them forward. "There are no halts. Keep moving."

The prisoners of war shuffled forward in narrow, cramped lines into the gates of Númenor to be reviewed by the king, Ar-Pharazôn. Dying naked dogs along with an assortment of orphans, street vendors, and prostitutes roamed the streets of Armenelos; the capital was famous for it. This was at least so for the poorer places, which was eighty percent of the city.

In a corner a pair of cats were fighting over a rat carcass, one of them with half a ear torn off and still snarling. Ironically, two orphans by a brothel were doing the same, both struggling for a half-eaten hunk of something that looked strangely like a chicken leg. A dark-haired boy of around twelve was staggering down the street, his face smeared with grime and dust so that the whites of his eyes stood out in stark contrast to all else. He was looking directly forward at nothing and walking directly forward at nothing, and his hands were shaking. Narbeleth thought she could hear his trembling breath right by her ear, so raw and real she dared a quick glance backwards to ensure no one was there.

"Keep moving," the man shouted.

The tower of the watch loomed before them. In the gated parts of the city, in the heart of it, Narbeleth could see mighty edifices made of royal blue and pure gold, lustrous in the sun. White cloisters surrounded green gardens laced with fountains and flowers, and vines climbed up their white walls and white towers. In the center of one of the largest gardens there was a great statue of a Númenórean king holding aloft the Sceptre. Seeing all this imposing grandness somehow humbled her and made her want to bow down in obedience—whoever could muster such power and bring such accomplishments into being surely must be a great man. For the moment she forgot the squalor and poverty of the city and her vow to her home country, and when she remembered them again she was cast in terrible shame.

Ar-Pharazôn stood upon a lofty dais so far away Narbeleth wondered if an Atan could even see him from where she was. He was holding the Sceptre of Númenor with both his hands, as if he was afraid someone would try to take it from him. It looked almost like he was leaning on it, an old man in dire need of his cane.

He raised his hand, his right hand, keeping his left firmly clutched onto the Sceptre, and almost immediately the murmuring crowd silenced.

"Fellow friends from afar," he said, "welcome. My greatest wish for you all is that you find yourselves more peaceful, more content from wherever you came from. Armenelos is a place of rest, of rebirth, of richness and wealth."

As if in response, the blue banners around him rippled in the wind. It was such a prosperous blue, so much like sapphires...Nonetheless, the people from Endórë, the supposed slaves, the supposed prisoners of war, were muttering indignantly in the crowd. Some could see through the veil, and some were enamoured by it, but all were influenced.

"I know what you may be thinking." Ar-Pharazôn again raised his hand for silence. "That I am a liar, a deceiver, a terrible man. And yet you do not know me, you have only heard of me. Therefore I ask that you do not come to this sort of conclusions so quickly, don't you think? I think any person with a good education could know that."

 _He scarcely speaks like someone with a good education,_ Narbeleth thought.

"And—" Ar-Pharazôn paused, frowning, as one of his advisors hastened up to him and whispered something in his ear. His scowl only grew deeper as the words went on. "Huh." He turned to the gathered crowd. "Anything you may tell me, you may tell them. We are allies now, after all, aren't we? Tell them, then, what you told me."

The advisor gave him an uneasy look and backed off the dais.

"It looks like Endórë is calling us for aid," Ar-Pharazôn said. "Isn't that interesting? We have just aided them _so much_."

* * *

— _Atharys—_

That morning when he woke, his partly-healed wound throbbed, yet it went unfelt for he had decided. Atharys stood and dressed quickly. Outside it was still dark, likely only an hour or two after midnight, and gentle snow drifted down, scarcely landing upon trees' boughs before vanishing into naught.

Hrysívë and him had not yet truly spoken since the trial and the predicament, and he had never gotten a genuine explanation of Khamûl's accusations. He assumed they were false, yet even then he could not take his mind off of it; it continued to circulate through his mind, swimming into paths that he had not dreamed of. This game, this dangerous game—Mairon would say that someone had to win, and it would be them, but Atharys knew that in a war like this, there were no winners, only losers. Mairon could say they won, they achieved all they wanted to, they built their empire, but what of it? It led to nothing, to ashes and dust, to pain and loss.

Atharys slipped his hood over his head and stole his way outside to the Wainrider camp. The ground was wet with thawed snow so that the ground sunk a little beneath his feet each time he took a step forward. The guards at the gates took no notice of him, but he tossed them each a bag of coins to ensure their silence.

The prisoner in the camp was guarded with four men, considerably light for one such as him. Atharys approached the guards, letting them see his face, who he was.

"Your Highness," they said, inclining their heads.

"This will be a short talk," Atharys told them. "Tell no one of my presence."

They bowed again, fists together. "As you command, Your Highness."

Atharys parted the billowing flaps of the tent and entered. The prisoner seemed to be asleep, his arms chained on either side of him and his head lolling onto his chest, but at Atharys's coming he raised his head and stared straight at him, a gaze full of loathing and hatred.

" _You,"_ he hissed.

"Me," Atharys agreed.

"You happen to be alive."

"I do," Atharys said. "Did you mean to kill me? Why, that would have been rude."

The prisoner gave him a black look and said nothing.

"My father told me you were once Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin. You knew my sister, once."

"So I did surmise correctly. You are both children of Mairon," Glorfindel muttered. He looked up, eyes accusing. "What of it?"

"I take it then you were sent here by the High King of the Noldor Gil-galad," Atharys said. "Were you not?"

"And what if I was?"

Atharys turned away and began to pace the room. "Tell me about my sister."

He was taken aback. "What?"

"Tell me—"

"I heard you the first time," Glorfindel spat. "Tell you about her? What an odd question. What do you want to know? Should you not know her by now, as _siblings?"_ He emphasized the word as if it was a curse.

"Do you hate her?" Atharys inquired.

Glorfindel could not find a way to break his gaze. "I do not have to answer to you."

There was a strained pause. Atharys leaned forward, vaguely, carefully, as if to whisper a perilous secret in his ear. Then suddenly he pulled back and turned away. "That is right."

Glorfindel looked as if he would rather Atharys burn him with hot iron than agree with him.

Atharys thought about Mairon—his hopes, his ambitions, his failures, and he thought about Hith's also. _Sometimes what you hate is what you are._ He wondered if that was true for himself. "Was she different from how she is now?"

Glorfindel barked a sharp laugh. "No doubt. Seasons change, and so do people. I knew her since she was seven. Quite a different person then. Then I was myself strange to the person I am now. Odd to think of that, isn't it?"

 _Very odd,_ Atharys thought. "You must hate me."

"Am I not justified in that?"

Atharys paused for a moment, contemplating his next words. "You want to get out."

He was cautious. "Are you offering?"

"You have connections with Gil-galad," Atharys went on, paying scarcely any heed to Glorfindel's interjections.

"In fact, I know him personally." Glorfindel was keenly studying Atharys's expression.

"And I suspect, with your authority and position, no one would doubt your words, your claim."

The chains clinked. "What do you want?"

"I want to give a message to Gil-galad," Atharys said. "Will you do this for me?"

"What kind of message?" Glorfindel demanded.

"I want..." Atharys wavered for a moment, wondering if decisions like this could be undone. "I want you to bring him a treaty. A treaty of peace between the two nations."

Surprise and disbelief emerged into Glorfindel's eyes, and it seemed almost he would refuse just because of who he was. Atharys could not blame him; he knew who he seemed to be in the Noldo's eyes.

"A treaty of peace," Glorfindel repeated, still not quite believing what he had heard. "And why would you want that? Have you not planned for years to begin this war and win it?"

"I am not my father," Atharys said. He wanted to believe it was true. "My intentions are in no relation to his."

Glorfindel nodded slowly. "Very interesting."

Atharys turned to the billowing flaps in the wind. "I expect, as a leader of the Noldor, you would want peace for your people. You would want them to live, would you not?"

"Very well," Glorfindel said. "Tell me, then. What are the terms?"

* * *

 _A/n: As I have said before, I have altered the dates slightly because things happen over a very long period of time in the Second Age and all of our human characters would be dead long before the end. Therefore, to clarify, in this time it was actually Tar-Minastir that sent the navy to Lindon, but I changed it to Ar-Pharazôn. No joke_ _—so much of the Second Age is just a list of dead Númenórean rulers._

 _Also I apologize for the relatively long wait. It's extremely difficult to find a balance between writing and schoolwork. I'm tempted to quit high school and just write :)_


	62. Chapter III-III

CHAPTER III

* * *

— _Naergon—_

"Your Grace, I am here," Naergon said, bowing briskly before Gil-galad.

"I need to make an announcement." He spoke quietly, hesitant and uncertain, then turned to stare directly at Naergon. "I need to make an announcement."

"I have a report, Your Grace. The scouts have returned. They say that the host is ten thousand strong, and more yet are coming."

"How many more?" Gil-galad demanded.

"They did not know; they did not see. Some have gone ahead to scout. Others returned." Naergon brushed his thumb over the pommel of his sword.

Gil-galad turned away. "Announce that we call for a draft."

"...A draft?"

"Look at their numbers. Look at ours. We have no choice." He slammed a fist down on his desk. "Valar damn it. Why didn't they _kill_ him before?" Turning away, he heaved a strained sigh. "And send calls for aid to Númenor and Eryn Galen while you're at it."

Naergon thought of his time in the Isle of Balar after the Third Kinslaying during the War of Wrath. He would fall asleep every night seeing the red and orange explosions in the North, and even when he closed his eyes he could see them in the blind darkness.

"What are you still standing here for?" Gil-galad said quietly. "Go. Tell them what I have ordered."

 _Because you don't want to do it yourself? To see their faces when they realized what words you were speaking—how much mere words could change them?_

Naergon inclined his head. "As you command, Your Grace." He retreated slowly out of the room, as if wishing the words could somehow be reversed, but nothing ever happened.

In truth, he was apprehensive to be the one to make the announcement, yet he knew he should push himself to do it. He was tempted—so tempted—to let one of the servants do it, but then it would seem like the order didn't care for them. It had to be him. _I am Captain of the Guard of Lindon. I must play my part right._

He called in the royal calligrapher and spoke the words. The letters were dark and heavy upon light parchment, a shadow seeping onto a once untainted land, though Naergon mused that the land had been tainted the moment the Noldor set foot upon it. Lindon had been made and built by the survivors of the War of Wrath, and it would be defended by both the old and the new.

Naergon read the edict to the people of Lindon, as he had promised himself, but he left almost immediately after. Later that night, he wrote three other copies of it, just to ensure its security.

Days passed. The host of Lindon assembled, trained, and marched in drills. Naergon watched them, and he waited. Nights became sleepless—soon he found himself often standing watch at the gates, alone save for the whisper of trees and dreamed voices. Though he knew the scouts may well not return, still he lingered for them. He wondered what had become of Glorfindel. The people likely expected some sort of heroic spectacle from the former lord of Gondolin, being brought back from Mandos and all, yet Naergon had learned not to expect too much from the mishaps of life. After all, Glorfindel was mortal as the rest of them, and it was not impossible for him to die upon his first mission back. It would be tragic, yes, and inconvenient, but it was certainly not impossible.

Morning dawned grey as any day of Quellë, and a mist was thick in the air. Those troops that had assembled that morning appeared to be just as disconcerted as the weather; they ran through their drills monotonously and dutifully. Crows cawed amidst fog-entwined trees, and some children in the street were trying to catch them, but they could scarcely see them.

"Ando láta!" one of the guards shouted. _Open the gate._ The succinct words cut through the stiff quiet of the morning, an admonition. Naergon heard the galloping of hooves clattering upon stone, shoving his way to the front.

"Hold," he commanded. "Who goes there?"

"The scout," they told him. "Dolothen."

For a moment Naergon held his breath, wondering if it could be some ruse of Sauron's. He remembered the ambush of the embassy that Maedhros had brought to meet Morgoth, and was glad he had not been a part of that. "All right then. Ando láta." He turned then, and shouldered his way through the crowd and made his way down the stairs to the gate.

Dolothen's horse was dying beneath him. It had been pierced with perhaps four or five arrows. Naergon did not stop to count; the wounds had come to such a point that it would be mercy to put the poor creature out of its misery. Dolothen himself had three arrows in him, one in his leg, another upon his shoulder, and one more at his side. Naergon did not think he would live much longer either, particularly when he drew nearer, his wounds becoming more visible.

The horse collapsed before it even reached the gate. Dolothen, flung into the air, landed violently on his knees—his years of training still had him landing upright. Already Naergon and a few others were hastening toward him as others kept the watch. The horse was screaming in pain, so one of the guards had to go forward and slit its throat; that sort of pain was not worth living for.

"They...have...come." Dolothen was seized in a hacking cough, and blood ran out of the corner of his mouth in a dark trickle. Still his eyes flickered to Naergon, something vehement gushing into them. "Captain. You must promise this: they _must not take Lindon."_

Naergon bowed his head. "It will not happen, not when I still live."

"Thank you," he murmured. "And Chaerwhand—tell him—tell him..."

But whatever he had wanted to say was never known, and passed out of all memory. There was a long, painful minute of coughing before he at last faded into the realm of Mandos, into the realm of lost remembrances.

It was scarcely an hour later that Naergon espied the host of Morinórë approaching, chanting for foreign concepts that he never bothered to note.

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

Insangar returned to the tent late that evening, scarcely scathed from the battle. "I am back, sweetling," he purred, intertwining his arms around my shoulders.

I turned my head a little to see his face. My back throbbed a little from the ghost of my wound. He seemed to wear the specks of blood on his face like rubies and the steel he kept constantly strapped to his body as if they were what made up his being. Triumph glittered in his eyes, and that saddened and pushed me forward simultaneously. _Remember what they told you. There are sacrifices to be made._ This is the only way.

"Are you unhurt?" I asked, deciding to rest on milder topics before I delved into the hunt for information.

"Little scratches," he said. "They are of no importance." He was very excited, almost intoxicated. "Verinya, the siege is complete. Lindon is surrounded, with no sources of food or water or aid. They still hold on inside, however. On the morrow we will break the gates, and this battle may be won as quickly as it was begun."

"Its beginning was quite slow, if you ask me. Dated back to a few thousand years of hate."

Insangar huffed and turned away, annoyed, and when he spoke again his voice was mocking. "Ah, of course you would know, Your Highness. Do pardon me."

"There is no need for imprudence," I said. "Tell me what you wish. I know there is something."

"Nothing if it were not for you." Insangar traced his thumb along the hooked knife at his side. "I do not understand you, Hrysívë."

 _That is not my name,_ I wanted to say. "And why do you say that?" I said quietly.

"My name is Insangar, Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. I fight for my people—that is _who_ I am. But you? I cannot be so sure."

The irony of his words had a sardonic smile playing at my lips. "Truly? You fight for your people? What are _you_ doing here, then? Fighting in these wars that are not yours will only cause death amongst your people."

"By _your_ influence. We have ended up here because of _you_ , Hrysívë. Don't you dare blame these things on me. I am proud of my people, my culture."

"Then why did you let them fall so low?" I mused.

Insangar drew in an angry breath, turned away, then abruptly turned back again. "Why are you telling me this? Is this not what you want?"

"What I want? Ah, indeed. That is difficult to determine."

"Stop playing around with your words. Tell me. No riddles, no trickery. But that is scarcely possible, isn't it?"

"Think what you like. I am not my father."

"Oh, but you _are_ ," he said. "You are." He barked a laugh. "It is impossibly true."

"No. I did not grow up with him. I was never influenced by him as a child," I told him, struggling to keep myself calm. "You do not know what you are saying."

"All right then." Insangar crossed his arms. "I heard once, that you were raised by the Eldalië."

"Yes," I said quietly.

"Funny, isn't it? Now that you want to kill them?"

"This is not _my_ doing. It is my father's." My voice had raised a little, gone to that level of subdued indignation, though it was true. My influences upon him had caused him to attack Lindon directly. _This is the only way._ I subdued that anger, that hatred, and turned my eyes slowly to him. Mairon has been deceiving you— _us_."

"Tell me, then, which lies were his and which were yours."

"He took your freedom without you knowing. Your people, the Wainriders, used to roam free in the wild lands, yet the so-called treaty of his bound you to him. You are fighting his wars, serving his purposes. You are spilling the blood of your own people for a foreign power."

"I have my own plans, Princess," he said. His voice was low and guttral; I had threatened his pride, pointed out his flaws.

"I know," I told him softly. "Yet you too have admitted that you cannot hope to usurp his position, onl rise to be a high-ranked official in his court. Either way, you will still be under his dominance. You will have to bow to him." I laughed a quiet laugh. "Quite funny. In the beginning, before you came to Morinórë, you could have defeated him. He had scarcely anything—no coin, only a few troops, and a small court. Instead you chose to treat with him, because you yourself was doubtful."

"And you were the gift in return for the alliance," Insangar said. "I wonder—are you still the Princess of Morinórë, loyal to your father's order, or are you the wife of the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders? Or perhaps—are you a Noldo?

"Why can I not be all of that at once?" From my observations, I had come to a conclusion, and partly decided my succeeding actions. Insangar was unwilling to return to the Wainrider ways; his ambitions had grown too large.

"Are you suggested, then," he murmured, "that we call off the siege?"

"You are Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. This is your choice. I have no say in this matter."

"Then why did we ride all this way, if only to turn back?"

I paused for a moment. "I was uncertain. Uncertain of what to do, what to choose. I did not know what to do...I still do not."

He took a step forward and touched my back. I flinched; the would still pained me. Perhaps that was why I was not fighting in the siege, or perhaps, if was merely a false justification for me to not kinslay again. Insangar sighed and took his hand away.

"I cannot back down," he said.

I fought to keep my breathing steady. Yes, _yes_ , this is what I had intended. To sway him, bring doubts into his mind, but not convince him. It was nearly impossible to retreat at this point—in the face of victory. I wondered if Lindon had to fall for my plans to work. People would die for this, give their life for a forged cause, but what better choice was there? _This is the only way._ It was for their own good, anyhow.

"You do not have to fight if you do not wish to. If you do not wish to...kinslay. If you back pains you." He sounded as if he was about to say _if you do not wish to kill your own people._ Oh, but I am, either way.

Nonetheless, I wore that mask of gratitude and lifted my eyes to his. "Thank you," I said quietly.

He kissed me tentatively on the lips, and I thought about what it would be like to love the person you are bound to.

"You should rest," I said. "Let me dress your wounds."

Reluctantly he agreed and I led him to sit on the stool, the night quiet save the dripping of water as I wrung the towel.


	63. Chapter III-IV

CHAPTER IV

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

The rain was hot and humid; to breathe was suffocating. The very air left his skin sticky with sweat, though his feet were cold from trekking for days in the mud. The part-Maia, the other child of the Lord of Morinórë, had given him a weathered pair of boots, but he had lost on foot in the mire. So he had no choice but to walk with one foot stuck in a boot plastered with mud and the other bound in the gauze he had used for his wounds. Soon his feet had swelled, numbed, and become cold and blotchy. They prickled, felt heavier than usual, and they weighed him down with every step as if there were irons around his ankles.

In fact there were—but figurative ones. He could take them off, if he wanted to, he supposed, but it was a difficult decision to make.

The fact that it was difficult bay have been somewhat surprising; was it not such a simple decision, so candid, so morally correct to agree to it? The Prince of Morinórë had offered peace to Lindon, offered a way out of death, and yet it was _difficult_ to decide whether or not to accept the treaty.

Yes. All of that was true, and peculiarly so for one as esteemed as him. He had changed, yes, he had changed from his time as a prisoner of war in Morinórë; he had changed and also realized what it was like to be degraded, hated. The first instance of this he had known was Nelyo. Glorfindel had never been very close to him, but they knew each other, and they were mutual friends. Instead he watched Findekáno and the rest of his brothers make their attempts to bring him back to them, though they never wholly succeeded.

Then it happened to Hith too. At first he did not know how he should react, how he should behave, or what he could do to help her, but soon he learned to listen—truly listen. He wanted to bring _her_ back to them, yet when he remembered what had happened with Nelyo he was greatly disheartened.

The end of the First Age had been enveloped in total war. Soldiers were drafted, food was rationed, and taxes rose. Nearly all realms were destroyed, everyone had lost something or someone, and the majority of women had been raped. Glorfindel had never seen such ruin in all his years.

Now it was him. _He_ was the one to be captured, to be violated, to be treated like shit, and he wondered how he had not already drowned himself.

No—now was not the time for such dark thoughts, such _treacherous_ ones. He had to decide.

Decide? There was nothing to decide. The right decision would be to propose the treaty to Gil-galad, make peace, elude the destruction war would bring them. He had told this to himself so many times—too many.

It was such a plight of pride. Glorfindel had been sent as an informer and yet he had disobeyed orders, attempted to assassinate the Prince of Morinórë, failed, and gotten himself captured. And now he was being released by the very ellon he had tried to kill, with an offer of peace— _peace!_ What was more was that he was Hith's brother—or half-brother, both the bastard children—and harming him would harm her. Yet he could not be so sure of that. If only there was a way to—

His foot found a loose stone amidst the mud and his ankle rolled. He went splashing into the muck, all his body covered with it—his legs, his arms, his face. Cursing, he gingerly wiped what he could off his face and spit into the mess at his feet. It was still raining, the fat, hot droplets making his hair stick to his head and back.

 _Hatred._ That was the word, suddenly fitting, to describe the situation. Bitter, utter loathing. He wanted to scream, to rip his hair from his scalp and feel the blood sliding down his face in red tears. He wanted there to be something _tangible_ , so he didn't seem—

 _I have to, I have to, I have to._

* * *

— _The Emissary—_

"The sky is blue," Rhystórë said when he woke that morning.

Khalentharia yawned and rolled onto her side to face him. "No shit. You expect it to be green, Númenórean?"

"Not green. Red. I had a dream last night that the sky was red. Red as fire."

"Skies are red, at sunset and sunrise. It all depends on how you see it." Khalentharia rubbed her eyes and hugged her cloak tighter around herself. "Is it time already? I'm not getting up. You'll have to carry me to your brother's fortress if you want me to be there."

Rhystórë looked away and sat up, grunting. After a few moments of rummaging inside his pack, he fished out the remnants of the food he had taken with them when they left Morinórë—hard bread, cheese, and horse jerky. He tossed some to Khalentharia. "Will the prospect of food get you up?"

She made a grumbling noise in her throat that sounded part cat and part hamster, or a small rodent of some kind. Snatching at the jerky, she ripped off its cover and tore off a piece with her teeth. "Unfortunately you did not realize that it was possible to eat lying down."

Shaking his head, Rhystórë gnawed at a chunk of jerky for himself. It was tough and leathery, and he could only eat them in small pieces, else he would choke. "How far are we?"

"How would you expect me to know, Númenórean? I have only ever lived as a Wainrider."

He shrugged. "You could call it a rhetorical question."

Khalentharia threw her head back and laughed. "Clever, aren't you? Or just evasive?"

"Why not both?" Rhystórë glanced at the pointedly blue sky. "We need to get moving."

"So loyal, Númenórean? What's the hurry? Why do you care? Is it really that you have grown fond of the regime of Morinórë or do you merely wish to see your brother again? I find sense in neither of those."

"I would prefer to sleep in a warm bed with a pillow and more food than this gristly horsemeat, wouldn't you agree? Th—"

"No." She sat up and ripped off another bite of the jerky. "I was born and raised in the wild. These are my ways."

"Ah, of course. I seem to have forgotten." He had not forgotten. Rising to his feet, he swung his pack over his shoulder and jerked his chin at Khalentharia. "Come on."

She glared but rose and threw her spare cloak at him. "You're holding that. And I think it would be much nicer if we stayed here a little longer. The mountains are so beautiful."

The mountains were, in fact, reasonably beautiful, and in first light it looked almost as if they were glowing purple. Oh, if only the skies were purple too. Rhystórë glanced at Khalentharia as if she had somehow overheard his thoughts, and promptly faced forward again. The terrain ahead was rugged and unkempt, and they would be passing by a village soon. He wondered why he had asked how far they were when he knew of their exact location. It seemed he was doing more and more of these ludicrous things when he was around Khalentharia.

In five hours' time they reached the village not four miles from Lond Daer and rested at a tavern there, for which Rhystórë was very exuberant. He pointedly ordered something that was not horse jerky—hot soup—and encouraged Khalentharia to do the same. She, however, pointedly ordered a chunk of venison, the closest thing she could get to horsemeat.

"What do all these shiny things mean?" Khalentharia inquired, eyeing the coins Rhystórë was counting.

"Money," he said. "Ever heard of money? They're half the world's problems."

"Hm, interesting." She was prodding the coins with the tip of her index finger as if they would somehow poison her. "People do fight over. . .shiny things quite a lot."

"You can say that, I suppose." Rhystórë picked up his bowl and drank the soup loudly. "Oh, so delicious."

"Son of a bitch." She made a face then glanced to the side, her expression shifting. "Those men at the other table—they keep staring at me."

Rhystórë squirmed. "You're prominent. Conspicuous."

"Ah, so you admit it!" she cried in triumph.

"What? No, no, not in that way—"

"Then in what way?"

"You're a Wainrider. An Easterling. You look different. Which reminds me—we'll need to change our clothes."

"Oh, _you_ want to wear _my_ clothes?" she exclaimed.

"No! No. _No._ Listen—"

"You look so adorable when you blush like that! Like a llama sacrifice. . ."

"Stop shouting so loud," Rhystórë hissed. "Finish your meal, or you'll be eating it as you walk."

"You don't talk to _me_ like that, Númenórean. Ever heard of freedom? That's what I am. I'm _free_. I can do what I want."

Rhystórë downed the last of the soup. "All right. We're leaving."

"No."

"Well, I am," he said, standing," and I'm finding us a change of clothes."

"Do what you want. You're a free man too. Or at least you should be. I'll be waiting right here." Khalentharia crossed her arms and tore off a chunk of venison.

"Fine," Rhystórë said, dropping his arms in exasperation.

"Fine," she said.

"Fine."

He turned and left the room. An hour later, he returned with more Númenórean-acceptable clothes and found Khalentharia lounging in her chair, eating a chicken leg. Right when she saw him, she finished picking the meat off the bone and threw it into a pile of perhaps twelve other bones.

"I see you have returned," she observed.

The room was nearly deserted save for them and the bartender. "What's going on here?"

"Oh, they lost a fight." She dropped another bone into the pile.

"They?"

"Mhm," she said, mouth full and nodding.

Rhystórë sighed and threw her the clothes. "Go put that on."

"Here?" A smile played on her lips and a mischievous glint crept into her eyes.

"No, no. In the privy, perhaps?" _Dear Ilúvatar, what am I going to do with this one?_

Khalentharia frowned. "Privy?"

"Yes, the place where you do your business."

"I know what a privy is, Númenórean. I was just unaware that your kind doesn't shit with the pigs." She smiled coyly, her eyes laughing, and stood. "I'll go now, and you'll wait right here."

In a few moments she was gone and it was just Rhystórë and the bartender. Rhystórë sat down in Khalentharia's unoccupied spot and took a piece of chicken.

"How many people did she beat up?" he said.

"Seven," the bartender told him dolorously.

They ended up arriving in Lond Daer a few hours past midday. The grey, daunting city contrasted quite starkly to Khalentharia's ebullient temperament, as did her new garb. She looked strange, not so much like herself in the dark antle he had found her, and with the black outline upon her eyes and her hair bound in a Númenórean-style bun, she seemed somehow more stiff and frigid.

Lond Daer's encircling walls were half a hundred feet tall—immense bulks of stone that dwarfed even the tallest tree. They must have been at least several miles long, extending across from one far side of the Gwathló River to the other. Guarding the gates were two enormous statues of roaring lions preparing to leap in an attack, and they were grotesque. Long tongues lolled out of their mouths almost like the forked ones of a snake, and their eyes were large and fierce as if they would bulge out of their sockets. Along with these two lions, a pair of guards with long spears stood there, still as stone, and there were yet more watchmen patrolling the walls above.

"We should have brought horses," Khalentharia said. She seemed somehow to not be intimidated by these imposing structures. "This is so awkward on foot. I can tell the guards are watching us, more carefully than most."

"What do guards do, if they do not watch?" Rhystórë fixed his gaze upon the entrance and flicked his eyes to any possible routes of escape. "Let us hope they let us pass."

"What else would we hope for, Númenórean?" She chuckled quietly to herself. "Eyes _forward._ Not on me."

"What?"

Rhystórë inhaled and exhaled slowly as they crossed the rest of the distance to the gate. The guards remained motionless as the states they were positioned next to, but he could feel that there was someone else watching. He breathed a sigh of relief as they passed the first gate. . .

The guards' spears snapped into an _X_ before them.

A stalwart man with a javelin emerged from a side door. "Dunlending, are you?"

"You must be mistaken," Rhystórë said. "I am—"

"Not you, boy." The man had turned to Khalentharia, spinning his javelin in his hand. "This one." He lay the point at her chest. "Come as another scheme to destroy our city again, Dunlending? To get your petty vengeance for the destruction of your little forests? Oh, you tried, poor girl, but not this time—"

"Wait." Rhystórë stepped forward, glancing for a fraction of a second at Khalentharia. Her eyes were murderous, her hands clenched into fists. "Something must be—"

"Lond Daer was burned to the ground. Twice. By Dunlendings. I need no more reason to fuck all the squint-eyed whores I can find—"

Khalentharia struck the man in the face so forcefully that he stumbled backwards and fell into a pile of timber.

The guards were instantly on them. Before Rhystórë could even draw his sword, his hands were thrust behind his back and tied. By the time he could see straight again from the blow a guard had dealt him, Khalentharia was bound likewise.

" _No!"_ Rhystórë screamed as they wrenched a blindfold around his eyes. "We are emissaries from Morinórë. My brother, Belyswë—he is the lord of this city. Let me speak to him!"

"Your words fall on a deaf man's ears," someone said.

Rhystórë tried to shove his elbow into the delicate flesh of whatever guard was holding him, but he only met stone. His bones sang with the pain but he continued to struggle, biting the hand that shoved the gag into his mouth—

"What is all the commotion here?"

The struggling lessened, and Rhystórë stilled. He heard clear footsteps slowly approaching him. _Clack. Clack. Clack._ The gag was removed, and he felt someone crouch down before him, the only sound his and Khalentharia's rugged breathing.

Belyswë undid the blindfold. "Why, if it isn't my dead brother."

* * *

 _A/n: A quick question to my readers...which characters are you fond of (and not fond of) and why? Please let me know what you think!_


	64. Chapter III-V

CHAPTER V

* * *

— _The Sojourner—_

When Taeloth opened her eyes that morning, she had no desire to rise nor fulfill her promise to Églanim, even as the weight of Nenya in her hand grew. She stared distantly before her, her eyes not seeing and her body not feeling. It must have been cold, but she did not know. The sky shifted, ever so slowly, from grey to pink and yellow to pale blue, and she watched it all transpire, with no part to play. That was how the world worked. It would go on and on—people would love, kill, destroy things and each other—but she could lie and watch, unaffected. Anyone could. It was a matter of choice.

 _I don't have to do anything,_ she thought, yet nonetheless she rose when Athaeben shifted a little away from her.

Athaeben sat up, the leaves moving with her. "You're still here."

"Yes," Taeloth said.

"I expected you would go away alone." Athaeben brushed the covers off her and went on her knees to fold the cloth. "I suppose I was mistaken."

"You were," Taeloth told her.

Athaeben offered her a chunk of hard bread.

She put a hand up in declination. "No. I'm all right."

The elleth said nothing and ate her portion. Taeloth continued to watch the world transpire around her in the same unvarying cycles that she had seen so many times. Birds came out and chased each other amongst fields of poppy, the dandelions shaking weakly in the wind. The leaves on the boughs of pine trees were such a pale green they were nearly silver, as if the color had been leeched out of them.

When Athaeben was finished they embarked upon the path once more. Athaeben, somehow, knew the way, and though she had never asked, Taeloth thought they were near approaching Lórinand. She could tell by the wind, the way the ground changed, and Athaeben's demeanour. Taeloth never bothered to ask her who she was, where she came from, or why she had picked her out of the river. It was of no concern to her. Perhaps it was because she did not wish to speak to anyone in general—when she did, she had to try very hard to not refer to herself as Norkáwen, to bow and say _yes, my lord, it will be done,_ to not speak like someone lower than all else, a slave. It was so hard to look at someone.

The day passed as any day. They walked, Taeloth watched the world go by, they rested, they walked. It was near evendim that she began to notice a change in the terrain; the ground had varied from rugged to brown grassland, and they followed a roaring river though all the lands. Yet now she could see that there was something different ahead—a great forest of gold that seemed to glow even in the waning of the sun.

Athaeben gave no indication that what they approached was indeed Lórinand, but Taeloth knew enough. There were better ways to know than words. Another river—a smaller one this time—extended from the main one into the woods. They turned and followed that one instead.

For around half and hour they wandered in the wood, straying from the path of the river. Athaeben closed her eyes and continued to walk. "They are watching," she said.

Taeloth thought if she closed her eyes and tried to walk she would either fall and or bump into a tree, and it came to her that Athaeben was a trained warrior, someone to be feared. They walked for another quarter of an hour, Athaeben with her eyes closed and ears twitching periodically at some otherwise unperceived sound. Taeloth heard a creak in one of the trees above but kept walking.

An arrow whipped past Athaeben's face and _thunk_ ed to the ground. She did not open her eyes.

A dozen Eldalië dropped to the ground, encircling them, arrows on the verge of loosening. The head of them stepped forward, seeming only to be armed with a dagger at his belt. He approached Athaeben and studied her.

"Open your eyes," he ordered.

She did, silver irises pale as water.

"Blind, are you?" he said. "You're not looking at me."

"To hear and to smell are just as effective." Athaeben looked past him and to things beyond. "I need no eyes."

He nodded. "How did it happen?"

"Snake poison," Athaeben told him.

The Elda was still wary, but he turned to Taeloth. "You're a young one."

She said nothing.

"What is your business here?" he said to Athaeben.

Taeloth spoke. "I seek Lady Artanis."

"With what tidings?"

"I have," she began. "I have a letter from Lord Celebrimbor."

His eyes narrowed. "I see." He did not turn from her gaze as he signaled for the others to lower their weapons. "You must go blindfold through our lands."

Taeloth clasped her hands together behind her back in apprehension as they drew a cloth around her eyes. _They are Eldalië of Lórinand. They will not hurt me._

"You blindfold a blind woman?" Athaeben was saying. "Now I just wonder how ludicrous the rest of your kind are."

"Precautions must be taken," the ellon said. "Forward."

They began to move forward, and Taeloth flinched at the sudden touch on hands on her shoulders leading her forward.

"It won't be long," the elleth guiding her murmured.

It was some time later that the blindfold was removed and Taeloth found herself at the foot of a long spiraling staircase. The sun had fallen, and evendim approached. Athaeben was laughing silently at the futile cloth being undone from her eyes, and she did not blink at the grey light like Taeloth was.

"That was indeed the most necessary," Athaeben said to the ellon, who was now gesturing for them to head up the staircase. "I am now a woman twice blind."

He ignored her and began to lead the way up the stairs.

"Your name?" Athaeben inquired. "I have not been informed."

"Neither have I of yours."

"We are even, then."

"Yes."

Taeloth's legs were beginning to burn from the climb, yet she scarcely noticed. She was looking at this quiet grey realm, its silent beauty and whispering secrets. It was more beautiful than anything she had ever seen, and the sight of it gave her a sort of peace inside. And somehow, gazing upon these things made her realize the importance of the many truths untold she was yet to uncover.

When they reached the summit, the ellon stepped up to the _talan_ as if climbing it had taken no effort at all and went to a knee, bowing. Before them stood an older ellon, the King of Lórinand most likely, and he was clothed in grey in contrast to the golden wood.

"All hail King Amdír."

"Lieutenant Dinaelin." Amdír inclined his head. "Who are these guests you bring me?"

"The little one has a message from Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion," the one called Dinaelin said. He bent down and ushered her forward. "Go on. Tell them."

"Celebrimbor is dead and Eregion in ruin," Amdír said, both doubting and incredulous. "How came you by this?"

Taeloth took a reluctant step forward, her eyes to the ground. _If you want them to believe you, look up. Look at him, into his eyes._ It happened slowly, so slowly, but she did. "An emissary of Lord Celebrimbor. He gave it to me…before he died." She did not want to say any more. _I have to show them._ She held her hands forward like an offering, and in her palm glittered Nenya, pale and weathered. The Eldalië around her likely gasped, but she did not hear it. Blood roared in her ears and her heart thrashed in her chest, a caged animal vying to take flight.

Lady Artanis stumbled forward in part stupor, part reverie, her face iced over in gelid inconclusiveness.

"Tyelpe. . ." she whispered. "Tyelpe. Why did you do it? _Why did you do it?"_

* * *

— _Oropher—_

Aelíndë held the baby in her arms, swaying him back and forth gently and singing a soft berceuse under her breath. Small golden bells tinkled in the wind with the morning light that had begun to rise into the air with the sun. Oropher glanced over his shoulder from his papers at the sound of his son's intermittent crying and Aelíndë's tender cooing. In the light Aelíndë's hair shone radiant and gold, as if there were a thousand poppies wreathed in a garland weaving through it. With her lilting berceuse, the baby began to calm, the crying shifting into a blatant yawn.

Oropher rose from his desk and went to Aelíndë as their son napped in her arms. "He is a beautiful child." But in his head— _duty, honor, obligation. I had to._

She smiled, her eyes full of joy. He wondered how she could be so happy when so much had happened. Did she not know the pain? Was the taste of grief so inferior to gaiety?

"He is," Aelíndë murmured.

They sat there together in silence for a moment, then Aelíndë rose and lay the baby in his cradle. Situating him comfortably in the blankets, she drew light covers over him then turned to Oropher.

"Tea?" she inquired.

He nodded subtly. "All right."

Aelíndë headed over somewhere out of his view, and he could distantly hear the clack of a kettle—he wasn't listening very much. She truly did not have to do this for him; he was the King of Eryn Lasgalen and she his Queen. There were servants and handmaids, yet still Aelíndë insisted on doing these everyday trivial things.

"Ah—Your Grace."

Oropher swiveled around from his position. "Who gave you leave to come in here?"

The messenger lowered his head. "Pardon me, Your Grace."

He waved his hand in dismissal, a headache already starting to form. "No. Excuse me for my behaviour. What is it?"

"Two emissaries have come. They claim to be from Lindon."

Oropher sighed, standing. "Ready the throne room for our guests. I will meet them there."

"One more thing, Your Grace."

"Yes?" Oropher inquired.

"Our. . .informer claims that they are no Eldalië, but rather they are Maiar," the messenger told him. "We have not approached them on these matters, and they have not addressed them."

 _Interesting._ "All right. Thank you for letting me know."

"It is an honor to serve." He departed, bowing.

Oropher retreated to his private chamber to change into something more fitting for a king. Silver and azure blue, that should be all right, shouldn't it be? Hinaeryn liked to see him in silver and blue. _No. I am a married man now, I cannot think of such things._ He wondered if she was still alive—if Narbeleth was. It had been fruitless for Hinaeryn to go after Narbeleth, he knew, but he could not stop her. They were both likely dead now. _Admit it, there was no way out._

As he was fitting the belt around his waist, Aelíndë entered, holding the cup of tea for him. "Drink," she told him. "So you will have strength for later."

He did, and she went to get the crown he had to wear when he presented himself as a king. Nonetheless, he had only taken one sip before setting the cup aside and sinking back down to sit on their bed.

"Put it on," Aelíndë said, "and lift your chin. You must, for your people. They look up to you."

Oropher did as she told him and put the crown on, then lifted his eyes to meet hers. They held each other's gazes for a brief moment before he stood and strode out of the room.

"I will be back," he said, not looking at her. She usually attended the court meetings, yet with the recent birth of their son, she spent her time caring for him, not using a wet nurse like so many others did.

He made his way down the corridors to the throne room and situated himself upon that ridiculous chair, feeling more useless than ever. Directing the guards with a flick of his hand, he crossed his legs and sat up straighter as the doors rolled open. _Lift your chin. You must, for your people. They look up to you._

The two entered, clad in long cloaks that drifted on the ground as they knelt. In synchronization they rose and one of them opened his mouth to speak. "Well met, Your Grace. We are emissaries from Lindon, sent by High King of the Noldor Gil-galad. For that, we hope you will accept our presence here in Eryn Lasgalen. My name is Rómestámo and my companion here is Morinehtar."

"Your names are in Quenya," Oropher noted.

Both bowed their heads in reverence.

"Please forgive us, Your Grace," the same one answered. "I had forgotten. If I may redo my introduction, my name is Alatar and Pallando is my companion. I apologize profusely, Your Grace."

Oropher stood and made his way toward them slowly, observing them. He wondered if this was somehow a ploy; it was known that Lindon was besieged by the forces of Morinórë and no one could be let out nor in. Nonetheless, he knew he should wait until he unearthed more evidence of his own, but before it hindered his country.

"Well met," he said, "and welcome to Eryn Lasgalen."

* * *

— _Naergon—_

The sky was rusting. It had once been painted rich hues of blue, yet now the color had been weathered away to desolate blends of brown and red, the color of burning things, decaying things, failing things.

Naergon plodded heavily through the ravages of war—the bodies that lay strewn about on top of each other, the blood that splattered their faces and the ground, the incessant wailing and screams of despair or pain. It was ubiquitous and inescapable. They had broken through one of the gates, slain the soldiers along with the civilians, and now they streamed through one part of the city as the rest was desperately barricaded. Fire rose from that area and threatened to spread, burning all. Fire did not recognize one side from the other; it did not care. Both would perish, both would burn, both would die.

 _What are you doing here? You should be fighting._ Naergon drew in an unsteady breath and walked a little faster, but he did not want to look down; then he would see what he had failed to protect. He drew nearer to the shouts, and furrowing his brow, he tightened his grip on his sword. His golden arm moved as if bewitched with necromancy as a mob of fighting Eldalië, Easterlings, and orcs streamed into the clearing. They tread over the bodies over the dead, nothing more to them than fallen trees on a path. They were inconvenient, that was all.

With his sword, he plowed an orc to the ground then slammed his boot on its face, breaking its skull. He turned and immediately met the face of an Easterling. There was no hesitation as he produced a dagger and stabbed the blade into an eye. He wrenched the dagger out and kicked the shrieking Easterling away, moving on to another one. Sometimes he struck his opponents so violently that bone would crack from the sheer force of his golden arm. It was convenient, yes, to have an arm that could not be harmed. It was convenient to not feel, don't you see?

"Captain!" someone shouted.

Naergon swiveled around, trying to find the holder of the voice. He rammed his sword into the body of another, finishing them off with a swift spike through the chest. The latter made a sickening _squelch_ , like mud sucking onto a shoe when someone is trying to walk, except with it there was the sound of bones crushing and other internal parts bursting.

They shouted for him again, and he narrowed his eyes in the chaos, hoping to find something, someone. He felt wind shifting, howling behind him, then suddenly pain erupted in his back and he fell to his knees.

 _Wish that had been my golden arm,_ came his sardonic thought.

"Captain." One of the soldiers bent over him, eyes frantic. He must have fell to the ground to have someone bending over him. How humiliating. "Captain."

Naergon hardened his words, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. "Tell me. Forget the wound."

The young soldier hesitated, as if he had forgotten the tidings he had come to bring. Blood was streaming down the side of his face, and it went _drip drop_ to the ground. All seemed to quiet, and there was only those two sounds. _Drip drop._

"The call has been answered. Our call for aid. Ar-Pharazôn has come."

* * *

 _A/n: Hello, sorry about the obnoxiously slow updates. Unfortunately I am obligated to write a novella by next week for a class so I do apologise if things slow down even more. I will try to finish this story in two months, however! :) It's almost over. I'd like to know your predictions, or just simply your thoughts!_


	65. Chapter III-VI

CHAPTER VI

* * *

 _A/n: warning! heavy chapter ahead ;)_

— _Atharys—_

"Aþārithīr yondonya," Mairon said when he entered.

Atharys inclined his head in greeting. "Hello, atto."

"Very grateful that you were able to take the time to join me today. Come, sit." Mairon was sitting at a table for tea and motioned him into the chair across from him.

As obligated, Atharys took his seat. His fingers lightly lifted the kettle and tipped it into Mairon's cup first, then his own. It felt odd to be sitting down and having tea with his father; he realized that he had likely never seen Mairon drink anything but wine.

"Please." Mairon was courteous today, gesturing to Atharys's cup.

Atharys nodded in reverence and they took the first sip concurrently. It was Atharys that set the cup down first; Mairon seemed to be taking a long drink when in reality his tongue scarcely touched the tea.

"I want to talk about your sister," Mairon said.

 _Of course. It was always about Hith._ "Yes?"

"You may have noticed that she has gained certain. . .connections within the tribes of the Easterlings. Perhaps not friendship, but she has alliances. They fear her."

"I have noticed."

Mairon gave a short laugh, then gestured again to the tea. "Drink some."

Atharys inclined his head and they shared a toast, but to what he did not know. "I think," he began slowly, yet not uncertainly, "you worry of some false accusations. Lord Khamûl's crafty words have gotten to you at last."

"Not in the least." He had answered quickly—so quickly that it was made evident he was angered by these words. "A mere Easterling's words mean nothing to me. It is my own observations that lead me to believe otherwise, yondonya. I hope you do know that."

"Certainly, atto," Atharys said. "Yet for my part, I hope you do not place any false charges upon my sister. She is the only one to understand us both."

Mairon evidently did not know of his meaning, but he said nothing of it. "They are fighting in Lindon, right now. Reports say our casualties have been few and theirs heavy. Do you think your sister raised her hands to kill her own people? Which is her side, truly?"

"Sometimes you don't have to choose a side," Atharys said. He turned as a message-bearer hastened into the room, falling to his knees before them. Mairon did not turn, and merely took another sip of tea, staring directly forward at nothing in particular.

"My lord. Your Highness." The courier was breathing heavily and sweating just a slight bit. Atharys wondered how much worse their situation could get. Perhaps it was not so bad for Mairon as of now, but Atharys knew that there was no way to win a war provoked in this way.

"What is it?" Atharys inquired.

"Ar-Pharazôn. The Númenóreans have gone to Lindon to aid the Eldalië. Our forces are dying, my lord. We likely will not last much longer."

Mairon set his cup down and still did not turn from his unmoving stare. "Go fetch Lord Undanya."

". . .my lord?" The courier was taken aback by this answer.

"Must I say something twice? Go fetch Lord Tiríssë."

"I will. At once, my lord." The courier clambered to his feet and hurried away.

There was a long moment of silence as Atharys stared dolefully at his tea, Mairon himself taking another casual sip. Atharys had learned, from long years of observing his father's ways, that this was in fact what he did to conceal his fear and uncertainty. It might have seen calm and calculating to some outside onlooker, yet this was all only a ploy.

"What do you think of this, Aþārithīr yondonya?" Stiff words for an unfeeling mind. It was all logic and tactics here.

"I must say this was what I expected, atto," Atharys said.

"Oh? Is that so? Then why was I not informed?"

"It could not have been avoided, for your motivations," Atharys told him. "You would not have heard my words, nor listened."

Mairon raised flaming eyes up to meet Atharys's, and though his words were seemingly unflustered, he was fuming beneath. "I expect you think yourself to be quite a talented foreseer, then. Would you so graciously advise us on our next move?"

"Make peace. With both the Eldalië and the Númenóreans. This is a war we cannot win. You know what will happen if the Valar come again, and that is not to be avoided. If all of Endórë unites against us, then we have no chance."

" _No chance?"_ Mairon scarcely attempted to hide his anger any more. "No chance, is it? Have you seen the forces I have gathered? The tribes of Easterlings, the _yrch_ I have raised from the earth, my children the Urulóki, the Maiar I have charmed to my rule? With our power combined, how can the Eldalië even _hope_ to win against us? You know nothing of these matters, yondonya. You are far too young and have seen so little. The Valar will not come again. They have hidden themselves in that far West and they won't give a shit about the Eldalië that stayed here in Endórë."

"Why do you want this?" Atharys demanded. "What does this mean to you? Why do you want them to die, to suffer, to be destroyed?"

"Because _that_ is how they have treated _me_ for my _entire fucking life."_ Mairon was shouting now, something Atharys had never seen him do before. "Don't you know? No—you don't know, because you have never lived any of it. How lucky you are to have lived all your life here with me. I envy you, greatly. You have never tasted the vile _lies_ of the Valar, their _hate_ , their _pity_ , their _vengeance._ If only. . .if only." He broke off, chest heaving, and his eyes stared out into a false dream gleaming and bright. "You do not understand, yondonya. You do not understand. . ."

Atharys bowed his head. Perhaps that was the best thing to do at the moment. "I suppose I do not."

"No." Mairon's ear twitched. "Come in, Lord Tiríssë."

Tiríssë, the Maia of vigilance, entered the room, enveloped in his aura of quiet melancholy. He bowed deeply and slowly, then lifted his strange blue eyes of ice to Mairon, his hair silver as the moon. "How may I serve you, my lord?"

"Confine His Highness Aþārithīr to his chambers, and keep a watch day and night. There will be no pardons for accidents. He has committed one of the highest of treasons."

Tiríssë bowed. "It will be done, my lord."

"Atto?" Atharys stood abruptly from his chair, drawing backwards. "My lord, no. You must be mistaken."

"Frankly, I am not," Mairon said, then turned to Tiríssë. "Be inclined to use force if you must, Lord Tiríssë, though I would prefer to have him unharmed."

"My lord." Atharys had retreated all the way to the window. "My lord, you are mistaken. Please. I did nothing. I only meant to help you."

"Guards!" Mairon shouted.

Half a dozen poured into the chamber and encircled Atharys, Tiríssë in the rear, watching. Their swords gleamed bright, and more so their eyes; they lusted for blood.

"My lord," Atharys was still saying, "my lord, no." They surged forward now, and seized him by the arms, forcing him to the ground. The chains were cold and bitter upon his wrists and ankles.

"Take him away," Mairon said, taking another sip of tea.

" _No!"_ Atharys screamed. " _Atto!"_

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

Her eyes were dry when she woke, having scarcely slept. A heavy, dim light shone weakly through the window, revealing a few granules of dust floating around in the air as straying dreams. Narbeleth rubbed her eyes, trying to improve her blurred vision, so hazy she almost thought it was raining. She drew her shawl tighter around herself; it never seemed to keep out the cold. Everyone said it was because she was so skinny from the long journey. Sighing, she watched her breath fog the window then rubbed it away with her fingers. The glass was cold, but she just wanted to feel it.

An ugly clanging noise split through the near-silence. "Up, up, everyone up!" the woman shouted, shaking the cowbell in that way someone does something they do not wish to, yet they do it anyway because they must. The woman stopped ringing the bell after something like a half minute and retreated into the kitchens, where things were already beginning to cook.

The day hung heavy as a storm cloud before the tempest; her back hurt from working all day in the fields picking strawberries. They were not allowed to eat the strawberries they picked, but Narbeleth managed to shove two or three in her mouth when the overseer wasn't looking. After that she grew frightened of doing it again, however, because she had seen one of the boys was caught in the act. The boy was whipped so thoroughly he could not work for two whole weeks.

But only last night she had heard a cluster of boys whispering, daring each other to eat as many strawberries as they could without the overseers seeing. The most audacious of them boasted they could eat five strawberries. Narbeleth wondered why they would take such a risk, then her mind wandered off to the old days. _Oh, boys,_ she thought. _It's always them that do the stupid things._ She remembered times when she was little that she wished she had been born a boy so she could do stupid things and not care.

That was what they were doing now, in the fields. When Narbeleth dared not to shove any more into her mouth, the boys were making dashes for it, and she feared for them. She looked down to her work. If they caught her watching, they would blame her for it too.

There came a shout and an exclamation of indignation from the side of the field. Narbeleth dared to glance up, only because everyone else was doing it too.

"I wonder what that is trickling down the corner of your mouth." The overseer was holding a boy by the nape of his neck, the audacious one that had boasted he could steal five. "Don't you wonder?"

"N-nothing, milord," the boy spluttered. "I bit my tongue, that is all—"

"You lie." The words were unquestionable; they were right because of who said them. The overseer turned to a boy next to him that had also been stealing the crops. "Come with me."

Both the boys were screaming now as the overseer dragged them across the field, ruining the strawberry crops as they went. Narbeleth could catch some words amid the incoherent shrieks, most of which were _no_ and _please_. _Oh, I never meant to. If you never meant to, then why did you do it?_ The other children were shrinking away from the overseer and the boys, and Narbeleth wondered what good it was to pretend to be so daring when you wouldn't dare to save your friend who was about to die. The overseer and the boys had gone out of sight, but they could still hear the screaming, which seemed to be now coming from above. Narbeleth glanced up to the jagged crag above them, and she knew.

She watched them slowly struggle their way across the grass. This couldn't be the way it was—no—

The overseer shoved the first boy off the crag, as careless as if he was throwing junk away.

Narbeleth lunged, seized an anchored rock with her left hand, and—

Caught the boy's arm with her right.

Time went still. She could only hear the sound of her gasping breath in her ears and she could only see the boy dangling there, over the edge, eyes wide with astonishment and fright. All the working children and the overseer and the other boy—they were all watching, stunned by what had just happened.

Narbeleth heaved the boy back onto land, her wheezing mingling with the other's. They scrambled back over the rock, then suddenly Narbeleth heard a scuffle above them.

The second boy tumbled over the edge, so fleetingly that she scarcely had a glimpse of his fall before all that was left was the echo of his scream.

 _You can't save everyone, can you?_

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

The clamours of battle rose before him. Mud and filth still stained the entirety of his body as he struggled on with blistered feet and infecting wounds. His shoulder hurt at the slightest pressure; even the faintest touch of the finger would cause him to flinch. His hair sat inert in clumps of tangles and mire upon his back, falling into his face and obstructing his sight. Angrily he tossed it back, wishing he had a knife so he could cut it off and be _rid_ of it. He wanted to be rid of it all—the pain, the guilt, life.

There were people before him, but to what kind of people they were he could not be sure. _What am I here for? The treaty. The Valardamned treaty. Tell them. Gil-galad. You need to see Gil-galad. The King._

As he approached, he could now see that they were Númenóreans. _When did they come to Lindon?_ He wondered if the battle was in such a bad shape that he might not even have to propose the treaty—he did not want to have to fall to that level of _filth_ , of shame. Conspiring with a fallen Maia, the very son of Sauron. They would call him a traitor and tell him his words were wind. He almost _hoped_ the battle was so severe he would not have to speak.

The Númenóreans somehow only saw him when he was nearly on top of them. _If I was an orc, they would be dead already. Terrible guards._ "Gil-galad," he gasped out. "I need to see Gil-galad."

They blocked the way with their spears. "State your name and your purpose here."

It was then he realized they could not recognize him with all the shit he was covered in. "Lord Glorfindel. I have a message for His Grace Gil-galad."

"Well then," one of them said, peering closer. "Fell in a ditch?"

"Take me to him," Glorfindel hissed, ignoring the jape.

"As you wish." The guard turned and Glorfindel followed.

The rest was muddled in a cloud of indecisiveness. He felt as if he was trying to force his way through water, walking in a path he could not conquer. People were dying around him; he could hear their far-flung shrieks of pain in a different scope of his mind that he scarcely comprehended. Aside from that there were no thoughts, only feelings. It was a state of mind indescribable—when your eyes look but don't see, when your ears hear but do not perceive, when you know you are hurting but you do not feel it at all.

He found himself before Gil-galad in that state, and he had no idea how he had gotten there alive through the battle. The High King of the Noldor seemed to be unscathed though a few sprinkles of blood littered his garb and face, and he hastened forward to Glorfindel, clasping his hands.

"Lord Glorfindel—we thought you were dead—"

Glorfindel said nothing, staring off to the ground where a dead soldier lay.

Gil-galad shook him, troubled. "Lord Glorfindel? Glorfindel?"

He lifted his eyes, slowly. "Your Grace."

"Are you all right?" Gil-galad asked. "Are you wounded?"

"I don't know. A little, I think." He paused for a moment. "The battle—are we winning?"

"I cannot know," Gil-galad said. "We were nearly wiped out before the Númenóreans came to our aid. Yet now—now, perhaps, we have a chance."

Glorfindel nodded subtly. "I see." _You see? There is no need for a treaty. No need to fall so low._

Someone rushed into the room. A guard, Glorfindel presumed. "Your Grace, all of the south platoon has been slaughtered, along with Lord Adeltha."

Gil-galad grew perceivably uneasy. He heaved a weary sigh and shook his head. "What can we do against such death?"

 _A treaty. A treaty to end this all._

Glorfindel said nothing. Not for the people, not for Lindon, not for Gil-galad, not for the damn Valar that sent him here. _How selfish I have become._ But what did it matter?

Nothing at all.

* * *

 _A/n: Please let me know what you think! This was a really interesting chapter to write, which I did not proofread at all so tell me if there's any typos thanks :)_


	66. Chapter III-VII

CHAPTER VII

* * *

— _The Emissary—_

Days had passed since their arrival in Lond Daer. Rhystórë felt a stranger in this strange land he had once been so familiar with. He didn't suppose he ever called it _home_ , that name was reserved for Númenor itself, but it was a sort of sanctuary, or at least it had been, once. Even re-dressed as a Númenórean and not a Wainrider, he still felt alien himself, perhaps unfamiliar to his old self.

He stayed in his old chambers, and Khalentharia in the guest chambers beside him, but this time he had no handmaid to serve him. The first day Belyswë had called him to what he called "tea", Rhystórë had seen Nythiel. He had not recognized her at first; she had grown much and become a woman in his years gone.

Nythiel was not important, however. What was unsettling was that, in their first meeting, Belyswë busied himself with smalltalk and inquired nothing of where he had been all this time. Rhystórë meant to go forward during that time and accomplish his task as an emissary from Morinórë, but a little into the conversation, he decided to give it a wait. Belyswë was testing him, and so he would be tested too. One cannot trust so easily. He stood up to draw the curtains as dusk drew nigh.

Rhystórë furthermore had trouble deciding whether or not it was beneficial that Belyswë had invited them to a feast tonight. It had been hosted to welcome some lord of Númenor's arrival to Lond Daer, and Rhystórë wondered if this lord knew how Belyswë had really taken control of the city. Rhystórë supposed it wouldn't do him any good to keep worrying about it, and instead proposed that he should present one of the rings to Belyswë in this grand spectacle. Perhaps this would be of use to him.

An impatient knock thumped on his door, something that sounded more like he knocker was trying to break the door down rather than ask politely for entrance.

"That sounded quite rude, even if you were not trying to be," Rhystórë said as he answered the door.

"Even murder can be polite, if you ask." Khalentharia shoved her way into his chambers and shut the door behind her with a full length kick. Rhystórë noticed her feeble attempts to don a Númenórean dress for the feast—a simple gown of midnight blue, embellished with small scintillating jewels at the bodice. He thought she did quite well, for the first time. "For my part, that was the first time I had 'knocked on a door' in my life."

He made a strained smile. "You did wonderfully."

She attempted a curtsy, awkwardly in the dress, and cursed. "Stupid fucking thing. I don't understand how your 'ladies' wear these on a daily basis."

"Maybe you're not a lady."

Khalentharia made a face. "Want to see?"

"No, thank you."

"Good choice." She lifted up the hem a little to sit on the bed and rested her leg on its post. "I suppose you plan to present the rings to your brother tonight, then?"

"One of them," Rhystórë said, walking from the door to sit on the creaking chair by the desk. "You never know what will happen with him."

"I should hope you know that by now." Khalentharia glanced at the drawn curtains and turned to him. "Shall we go then?"

"We could."

She smiled treacherously. "Yes, we could. But should we?"

"We should." Rhystórë stood, snapping out the candle as he went. "I suppose they are waiting."

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

It seemed that when my eyes were closed, I could hear so much more. Perhaps it was because of the ósanwë, yet perhaps it was only because I _thought_ more with my sight gone. I could feel the clashes flaring between two sides, though they were all the same in my mind. Númenórean, Eldalië, Easterling, what was the difference? The war of Mairon and the Eldalië had raged for half a fortnight and a little more, and it seemed at last that the latter would prevail.

In fact I was more than a little content with that outcome. It would serve me well, I supposed, either way, no matter which side won. There was always another way out; if there were none to be seen, then I would have to dig one myself. But for now, I had to prove my faith to the Wainriders, so I could continue mingling myself within their affairs and be one of their own. I thought, for a moment, about what it was for. When the memory came swimming back to me, I wondered if that was still really why I did it. And I remembered that there were other Wainrider tribes somewhere lost in the south that were freer than the societies of the Eldalië, Valar, and Morinórë, and I wished their future well. I hoped they never came to these lands and continued living their lives of freedom. It was a gift to be cherished. But broken ones, on the other hand, were perhaps a greater gift.

Insangar's second-in-command brushed the tent flap open. "Why, if it isn't Her Highness Hrysívë."

"Yrenân." I inclined my head in greeting. "Have you come to bring me tidings?"

Yrenân let the flap fall behind him as he entered, with something like a swagger upon his gait. "Perhaps."

 _What an interesting pawn this one could be._ "Tell me."

"At your service, Your Highness. Insangar may or may not have sent me to take you from the camp, as he presumes that the Númenóreans are coming to destroy the supplies."

"Is that so?" I said. "How many?"

"Fifty, I might say, if you choose to believe me." Yrenân stole a tentative step forward. "Though of course, that is not a very large number."

 _Imprudence might kill you someday._ "Tell me of the battle."

Something flickered in his eyes. "All the same."

"Really, now?" I turned to the side, picking my cup of wine off the table and sipping it. "How old are you?"

Yrenân was evidently taken aback by the question. "Why do you ask?" he said, not all too rudely.

I wondered which words I could say to make him answer faster. "You look young."

"I'm twenty," he said.

I nodded as a signal of comprehension. "You are around the age of Khamûl, then."

"That one is younger than me. And his tribe is dying, especially after you have come to us. Your eyes, dark as the night sky, have enthralled the Grand Chieftain Insangar, and quite a few others, I might say."

I laughed. "Well, you're quite a flattering one." I had never spoke to Yrenân very much before, only seen him around and the looks he often gave me. I wondered how Insangar had not noticed it yet, and was glad for it; if he did there would be strife.

"This one serves to entice, Your Highness," he drawled, and the way he referred to me seemed a jest, likely because I was a woman.

"Do you?" I mused. "Tell me, are you frightened? The Númenóreans are coming for us, and yet you still stand here as if you don't know it is happening."

"I would never be frightened. I do not fear death," Yrenân said, "because I know I will not die today."

"And why is that?" I asked.

"Because I have dreams for the future. Plans." Yrenân's eyes glimmered with the prospect of it for a moment, then they turned to me. "You wouldn't know of them. Yet."

"I don't suppose I do." _I could, though, if I wanted to._

"But do you know what I know?" he murmured, so quietly that even my damned part Maian ears had to strain to hear. I wanted to laugh at his feeble attempts at seduction, though he was not bad for only twenty.

"I know something that you don't," I said. "Many things. One of them being the fact that it might suit you to turn around and get down to your knees."

Slowly, he turned, not believing me, and still keeping on eye on me. Amusingly, I had to give him credit for jolting so little. Almost immediately as he saw Mairon, Yrenân dropped to the floor in a bow, two fists together in the Wainrider fashion. "My lord."

He was donned in light armor, his hair unbound and entwined in a courtly crown. From beneath the shadows I could catch the fleeting glint in his eyes as he turned to the candlelight, and instantly I knew something was different. His demeanour—he walked now with a sense of humility, of reserve, and I wondered what it was for. This could not be an action by his own free will.

"So you have come," I said, walking forward, carefully heeding his every movement, even the twitch of his eyes.

Mairon inclined his head. "I have."

From the corner I saw Yrenân glance up to see our interaction. I did not turn to face him, and instead spoke, softly. "Would you give us a moment, Yrenân?"

It seemed he was about to object, because it was I that was talking. Then he remembered that Mairon was there, and promptly stood and dipped his head. He gave one more glance at me before he left, nothing short of being coquettish.

I turned to Mairon. "Has the battle gone so ill that you decide that your duty is with your people?" _Shit._ Sometimes things just poured out of my mouth.

"I have come to do something quite unlikely," he said. "And I have already done a handful of unlikely things, some of which you will unveil when you return to Morinórë. But they were necessary, I must deem."

"I see." I paused, gazing at the dancing candle on the table. It was so little. "Sometimes I wonder how I once thought you knew everything. I was young, then, but perhaps that is no excuse."

"Older than the boy that just went running out of here at your command," Mairon mused.

"Ah, you make him sound so timid. As for you—you have a marvelous way of evading what people want to hear."

"Perhaps I don't want them to know."

"Or perhaps you simply don't want to say it."

Mairon snapped his fingers next to the candle and the fire sputtered and died. Smoke trailed from it, leaking into the air. _Ninety-three names for ninety-three candles._ "Is that not the same thing?"

I let my fingers drift over another candle, kindling its light. "Unfortunately not. Tell me, atto, do you ever _feel?"_

"Very much." The voice was a low rasp, nearly guttural. He went the the newly-lit candle, too, and smothered it. "It is only that you do not see it."

"Let us play a game," I said, lighting another one. "I want you to think about something that happened. Right now. I want you to remember that moment and I want you to _know_ what you did. Now first, do you remember the needle?"

His eyes were dark and threatening, but he said nothing. His fingers hovered over the candle I had just kindled, yet he did not attempt to put it out.

"I kept it with me, for a long time. I think it was because I needed to _do_ it too, even when you weren't forcing me to. I wonder if you would still stitch needles into your own skin as a form of penance." I laughed quietly, looking at all the little lights around me that I had made. "So tell me then, atto—why have you come?"

Mairon opened his mouth. "Evidently you want a direct response. I will give it to you."

"I doubt the latter."

For once he ignored my comments. "I am surrendering to the Númenóreans."

Incredulous, my eyes shot up. "Surrendering?"

He seemed to be amused by my reaction, and inclined his head. "Indeed."

"And. . .your reasons?"

"Ah," he whispered, drawing forward. "There are so many."

When I looked into his eyes, I saw not repentance nor humility, yet a lust for vengeance and domination. My father had not changed after all. Sometimes his acts could fool even the most observant mind.

I smiled. "I see. I suggest you play an act of sacrifice. The Wainriders will not love you for this."

"I know," he said, "but I won't be the one here to deal with them."

Yrenân burst into the tent. "My lord, Your Highness. They are coming."

I held up a hand. "I know, Yrenân. Do not fear."

He bristled at that, and would have made a retort if it were not for Mairon's presence.

Mairon had not moved. "Hrysívë—"

"That is not my name. Did you not name me Híthriel in the beginning? I remember that you gave the suggestion to my mother, didn't you? Why the doubt?"

It was a warning, but he went anyway. I knew he would. "Remember how I made you _fly."_

I knew he was speaking figuratively, but I smiled sardonically. "I cannot any longer."

There was the near-silent sweeping of Mairon's cloak as he slid outside, then he was gone. I saw him in my mind, standing in the middle of the clearing, the Númenóreans' spears forming a barbed circle around him.

The gale grew so strong that the candles sputtered and died, and there was only smoke left to scatter in the air. Yrenân held fast to my arm as I stared after the tent flap fluttering in the wind.

"You say you cannot fly," Yrenân murmured into my ear, "but can you be sure of that?"

I seized his arm as he had seized mine, cautioning him to let go, and returned his gaze. "Quite."

There was a moment's pause before half a dozen men shoved their way into the tent, silver swords glinting in the night. Yrenân released my arm and drew his sword, almost instantly running the first one through the chest. Though unarmed, I disarmed my opponent fairly quickly, stabbed my fingers through his eyes, and struck him in the throat. I broke the neck of the second with an unbalancing kick, crushing his knee, and with only a quick snap it was all over. Quick deaths, less pain. When I was finished, I turned to see Yrenân slowly sliding his sword beneath the chin of the man he had just stabbed. The victim coughed, blood spurting out of his mouth, then moved no more.

Yrenân turned to me. "Let us go. I expect your husband wants you back."


	67. Chapter III-VIII

CHAPTER VIII

* * *

— _Mairon—_

The night smelled sharp as a knife—honed, shrewd, dangerous. Precarious, also, because a knife is not dangerous alone. It is only dangerous when the wielder knows how to use it. These were the ways of the night that embodied him, and he knew them so well even sleep could not deprive his mind of it.

Being led through the darkness, blindfolded, bound, and gagged, Mairon could see all. The soft trickle of a stream lightly tainted with blood, the skittishness of the horses and the soldiers, the dim _clang_ of weapons, the guard beside him scratching a soon-to-be infected cut, the murmured conversation in the rear about bringing the prized prisoner to Ar-Pharazôn. Mairon liked seeing these things. He liked knowing these things.

When they captured him, he had pretended to fight, pretended to be weak. It irritated him, to have to humble himself in this manner, but he was satisfied when they fell for his act. They had disarmed him and bound him, yet they were still frightened, so one of them decided to run a spear through his thigh. The pain then had not been faked.

Yet now, with his schemes flowing smoothly in as much control as one could be in, he was content. Though he longed for the end to come, for the plan to be carried out, for the victory that he could taste at the tip of his tongue, he knew—he could wait. There was no imminent need for it. He had waited so long. He could wait a little more.

Nonetheless, he knew he deceived himself with his thoughts sometimes, and that irritated him too. It seemed, with the years, his conception of the past, the present, the future had changed so much his memory had been altered. He had made some things up of his own, some glad, some dolorous.

Mairon knew now that they had entered Ar-Pharazôn's camp. The bustles of soldiers and healers were all around them, and though these soldiers had won, they were crying out in pain and anguish. Mairon wanted to laugh, to smile. It was all so ironic. Before Ar-Pharazôn tent they halted, and a guard called out in Adûnaic, a tongue he did not yet know.

One of the soldiers slid a dagger beneath his chin, pressing the seductively cold sharpness onto his throat. "One move and this blade cuts your throat."

 _You cannot kill a Maia,_ he wanted to say, but he was gagged, and so he said nothing.

"Bring him in," someone said, and a sword prodded his back, forcing him forward.

Inside it was considerably warmer, for the fire crackling in the center of the tent was substantially well-fed. It must be a big tent for someone to dare light a fire; if it was any smaller the fabric might have caught fire and burned down all of this Númenórean king's precious artifacts, hopefully including himself. The warmth of the room and the crackling fire kindled his memory of his forges back in Aman and in Angamando. A place for escape, oblivion, solitude—a place of release. He did not want to think of the former, nor the latter, however, because thinking of it made him angry.

The guard said something in Adûnaic that likely announced their entrance and stepped to the side for Ar-Pharazôn to properly examine him. Mairon's ears twitched as Pharazôn stood from some makeshift throne of his, jewelry jangling like sweet bells because he had already fallen into the trap scarcely made. Pharazôn took a few steps toward him, and they were clean and crisp; he was young for his years and in good shape. A man otherwise would have stolen heavy steps forward, more like heaves than anything.

Pharazôn walked around him in a circle, his steps slow and careful. They weren't light, however, which told Mairon that he was a prideful man. He wanted himself to be noticed when he went somewhere—he desired that high seat above all.

The King of Númenor opened his mouth, and this time he spoke in Quenya. "Is he so dangerous that you cannot breathe without holding a knife to his throat? You have wounded his leg."

Reluctantly the soldier released the dagger and stepped back. Mairon was left standing, free to the air, no guards holding him. The chains bothered him, however, but that was not something to be worried about right now.

"The gag, too. You think he will bite me?"

 _I would._ Mairon spit blood on the ground as the gag was removed. He was left blindfolded, nevertheless, which might have been a good choice.

"I know who you are. You don't have to introduce yourself," Pharazôn said. He spoke quietly, yet not uncertainly; he was one of those people who could speak quietly and sound phlegmatic at the same time. "Here you are not a leader, not a lord. You are a prisoner. You will speak when you are asked to speak. You will do as you are told to do. You would do well to accomplish these things, or some unpleasant things may happen. Understand?"

Mairon did not move. He did not want to have to fall so low, not even for the act.

"I asked you a question."

Stiffly, Mairon lowered and raised his head, once.

"Don't you think there was a reason for me to remove the gag? Now tell me, why are you here? Do not think I am so foolish to believe that my soldiers surprised you."

"Help," Mairon murmured. "I want to help you."

There was a long silence save the cracking of the fire, the sound like a whip. He could feel Pharazôn furrowing his brows at the words, observing him yet all the more. The soldiers at the perimeter of the tent shifted uneasily, and Mairon heard the faint scrape of a sword beginning to be unsheathed.

At last Ar-Pharazôn spoke. And though these words were in Adûnaic, Mairon could surmise their meaning. _Take him away._ The soldiers swarmed around him again, digging their fingers into his shoulders as they steered him out of the tent.

That night, when the chill of the hours of darkness reached his bones, he thought of something that had once happened to Hith—his daughter. Melkor had wanted information about the location of Gondolin, when the years were still young. It was not his main priority then, and he had not tried very hard to get the answer out of her, but it was still cruel. One night, bare, in the snows of Ered Engrin. _I never doubted you for a moment, yendenya,_ he had told her when it was over.

 _If that is so, I must not doubt myself._ Mairon wondered if that day would ever come, and suddenly he felt frightened of the future.

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

 _Children my age are so peculiar sometimes,_ Narbeleth decided as they lifted her onto their shoulders and hailed her as if she was a deity. The sonorous sound of their cheering boomed in her ears, throwing her into such disorder that she could scarcely think. Like her, the boy that had nearly fallen was silent as they too carried him upon their shoulders, the world passing by beneath a grey curtain, the sounds muted and trembling beneath a fallen wave.

At one point she met the boy's eyes, and they shared a certain sentiment that the others could not feel, though Narbeleth still could scarcely understand them. They crowned her for saving one, yet letting the other die. She did not know how they could celebrate after witnessing such death. Soon every child working in the plantations knew her name. Some would call out her name as she passed, and others only stared dull-eyed at her. The little ones, who knew little, would gaze up in awe at her, and she hated that.

Later, she learned that the 'rescued' boy's name was Gyldin, and despite the fact that his blood ran Númenórean, they did not treat him like one. His father had been an Elendili, captured and executed publicly for his treason, his mother carted off to be a concubine to some warlord, and his siblings each sold off into slavery. He was in this world alone, much like her, except sometimes she thought she had Farothon when he wasn't so distant.

Nonetheless, work on the fields toiled on. Being honoured by several hordes of children did nothing in this cruel world. She was surprised they had left her alive, and partly expected them to show up someday and take her away. If they were going to kill her, she wanted her body to be in one piece. She did not want to be beheaded, or hanged. Both were distasteful and the latter painful. She would not want them to drown her either, or throw her in a pit with a lion and wait for her to be slowly torn apart. Maybe she preferred to have her throat slit. Though she knew she would choke on the blood (she had seen it many times before), somehow she accepted the idea better.

It was these gruesome yet nonconfrontational thoughts that brought her mind away from the work, made it somehow placid like a windless night. In fact, it was so much so that she did not notice the knight that came sauntering up to her amidst the fields of strawberry crops. It seemed that he had been standing there for a little while, his arms crossed across his broad chest, observing her as she worked. The other children had momentarily ceased their work to glance in disquiet at the scene, and it was one of their faces that caused her to look up.

For a long moment the knight did not speak as they held eye contact, and Narbeleth found no need to speak either. She straightened slowly, cradling the basket of freshly harvested strawberries in her arms, and she hoped that he would bring out his knife and cut her throat rather than hanging her. To distract herself, she observed his garb—she knew he was a knight even without the sash and the armour. She knew, perhaps, from the way he carried himself, from the way he stood. He was essentially an official of the state, and that meant he _was_ the law. Silly written words meant nothing on paper when he was here.

"Do you know how I found you?" the knight said at last. His voice was fascinatingly soft; she wondered how such a big man could manage to speak with such tenderness.

"No," she said.

"I asked all of these children over here which one of you saved the boy. They all said nothing—and I praise their loyalty—but in their naiveness some of them looked at you. And that is how I knew."

She waited.

"Come with me," the knight commanded, and when he turned on his heel and departed, Narbeleth followed with no reluctance of any kind. She gave her basket to one of them standing near her, which caused immediate strife between the children, but she left it behind when she went after the knight.

"Do you serve a lord?" Narbeleth asked the knight.

"I do. His name is Agatharan."

"I have always wondered—do knights serve their lords willingly?"

The man glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before answering. "Some."

"And others?"

"That is the way they have always lived, and they know no other way."

Narbeleth nodded, and they lapsed into silence. Then the knight spoke again.

"You will serve him well."

"Who?" she asked.

"Lord Agatharan," the knight told her. "You will serve as a servant and cupbearer in the House of Taidô."

At the news, she decided it was better for her not to open her mouth, and for the rest of the walk to Lord Agatharan's residence, they exchanged no more words. When they reached the place, Narbeleth was surprised that the servants at the doors bowed to her as well as the knight beside her. But she knew it was because they did not know who she was, and perhaps they too were afraid. It was better to do more than to do the minimum. Maybe then they would even be rewarded.

Lord Agatharan was quite a portly man, Narbeleth would have to say, though even then she was being polite. He was quaffing a bottle of rum when they entered, and slammed it down, wiping his mouth and unkempt beard after he was fulfilled. Before they entered, he had already been laughing, fairly much like he had gone insane, and apparently he found no need to stop before guests.

"Nîlzagar," Lord Agatharan cried, and in his scornful laughter tears seemed to fall from his eyes. "You have come!"

The knight bowed, getting to one knee. "My lord."

"Númenor is falling to ruin. _Ruin!"_ His voice escalated with the oblivion of a drunken man. "Ar-Pharazôn has returned, and he has brought with him a prisoner—a fallen Maia, the Lord of Gifts. Don't you see what is happening? Don't you _see?"_

Nîlzagar lowered his head, not knowing what to say to that. "It is a tragedy, my lord."

"You don't understand! You don't _understand._ How could you, my most trusted servant. . ." Lord Agatharan trailed off to gulp down more rum. When he set his bottle down, he narrowed his eyes, seeing Narbeleth for the first time. "What is this you have brought me?"

"A girl," Nîlzagar said.

"I can _see_ that it is a girl. Speak more frankly, or I'll have your head on a spike."

"A replacement for the old servant."

Lord Agatharan wailed with laughter, suddenly forgetting Narbeleth. He truly was very drunk. "Pharazôn—he'll have _my_ head on a spike, seeing how mad he is. I'll burn all of his advisors alive and he'll trust _me_ and not _them_. Then there'll be no more games to play. Only me. Only me." He began muttering to himself.

Nîlzagar turned to Narbeleth. "Come with me."


	68. Chapter III-IX

CHAPTER IX

* * *

— _Glorfindel—_

Glorfindel made his way slowly through the ruins of Lindon. Smoke rose from charred, disfigured bodies, and the air stank of death—he stank of death. Everyone stank of death. The smell rose into his nose and threatened to suffocate him like a blunt dagger in his throat. Though half of Lindon lay untouched by the battle, he had still failed—deeply and heavily. There was no denying it.

In the smoke he heard the scuffle of frantic feet jumping into a stance and the sudden drawing of a sword. He himself did nothing, only standing there until the smoke parted and revealed Naergon.

"I thought you were an orc, risen from the dead." In relief Naergon relaxed and sheathed his sword.

Glorfindel wavered for a moment, stepping grudging over a body to get a little away from the smoke. There was a _squelch_ ing sound as his foot made contact with the bloodied grass. "You could say the latter is true." _Perhaps even the former, for what I failed to do._

"Aren't you supposed to be in the infirmary? I heard you passed out before Gil-galad at your return."

 _He doesn't know. No one knows._ "And I heard likewise for you, during the battle."

"Fair enough," Naergon said, wrinkling his nose as he stepped over a body. "What are you doing here?"

"I should ask the same for you."

Naergon halted to survey him. "You're getting awfully skilled at avoiding questions, aren't you?"

Glorfindel only stared at him.

"Tell me, then," Naergon said, continuing to trudge through the ravages. "What happened? Where did you go? You left Eregion when you were needed there the mst and vanished to who knows where without a trace. When Ost-in-Edhil fell, we knew nothing. Elerondo retreated with the survivors to Imladris, and that is all we have left."

"Eriador is being overrun," Glorfindel murmured.

"Would have been, if not for the arrival of the Númenóreans." Naergon turned to him. "Answer the question. I command you, as the general of Lindon."

Glorfindel paused, his eyes pausing over ashes scattered on the ground. "I was taken captive."

"By whom?"

"The Wainriders. . .I believe."

"Easterlings? You _believe?"_ Naergon shook his head. "Your behavior has been suspicious, Lord Glorfindel, and you should expect to answer to them soon. Before the court." Without another indication of the truth of his words, Naergon turned upon his heel and stalked away, leaving Glorfindel to stand empty-eyed in the dust.

* * *

— _The Emissary—_

Both of them—Khalentharia and Rhystórë—were giddy and flushed from the success (and the wine). At the feast, Belyswë had graciously accepted the little 'donation' from the Lord of Gifts, with no less vigour than he would go accepting a fleet of ships. Rhystórë made sure the dainty bronze ring caught the light as he held it aloft in the air before giving it to Belyswë, who seemed to appreciate the flair. It was so silly, how Lord Mairon thought these trinkets of jewelry could deceive even the greatest lords of Men, but when Rhystórë saw the look on Belyswë's face as he admired the thing, he felt an eerie shiver run through him. Perhaps there really was some necromancy that bewitched the receiver, although frankly Rhystórë had felt nothing when he touched it.

They were still at the feast. Khalentharia sauntered over to him now, holding a dainty cup of wine in her fingers, and in the dimness of the candlelight, the small clear jewels on her dress seemed to scintillate all the more, until they all blended together and she seemed to be the night sky herself.

"Why the dreamy look on your face, Númenórean? Thinking of the gold and jewels you'll be rewarded for your success?"

Rhystórë grabbed the cup of wine from her hand and quaffed up half of it. When he set it down, he had to hold onto the wall; his head was spinning so much. "No."

"What's the matter with you? That was exceptionally rude—drinking almost all of my wine. You are no gentleman." Khalentharia huffed and sipped from the cup he had left on the table.

"Even murder can be polite, if you ask," he said, quoting her words from a few hours before. He reached for the wine. "Give that to me. I want to drink my life away."

"No." Khalentharia took the cup back from him. "You aren't leaving me this early."

Rhystórë looked up at her from where he had been leaning on the table. He wondered how he had gotten drunk so quickly; her face was zooming in and out of focus, and there seemed to be four Khalentharias in front of him right now. That was too many Khalentharias for him to handle. "It's so hot in here."

"That's because I'm right here." She beamed. "Come on, let's go outside." Pulling him by the arm, she led him outside to the patio overlooking Belegaer, and the stars outside mirrored her dress. The cool night air nipped at his face, and he found himself opening his eyes just a little wider to take in the beautiful view.

"Nice, isn't it? You Númenóreans stay inside too much. We should leave here and live in the wild forever—"

"With the elephants and the rainbows and the dragons, yes."

Khalentharia crossed her arms. "Excuse me?"

"I want to go dragon-riding someday."

"You are incredibly drunk," she said. "Do I need to slap you?"

"No. Let me stay this way."

A smile played at her lips. "All right. Wait here." She vanished back through the door in which they came, and Rhystórë was left to the night alone. In a few moments she returned, holding two full glasses of wine. They drank together, and Rhystórë silently toasted to the sky.

"I want to hug the sky."

Khalentharia gave a sideways glance at him. "Go dragon-riding, then."

"I don't have one."

She sighed. "Well, isn't that a tragedy."

"Quite a large one," Rhystórë agreed. "Look at all the mountains you can build with all the stars in the sky."

There was a slight pause, then suddenly Khalentharia began to giggle, snorting on her wine and spilling it all over the ground. _Her laughs tonight are very odd,_ Rhystórë thought. They sounded a bit like she was about to sneeze every _ha_ so it was something like _aaa-aaa-aaa_. There were no "h's" in this peculiar laugh, and what made it even more amusing was that she kept hiccuping between the _aaa_ s.

"Let's dance," Khalentharia said, still laughing. "You'll teach me how you do it and I'll teach you how I do it."

"As you wish, my lady." Rhystórë attempted a bow and ended up stumbling upon his own feet.

"A failed dancer so quickly?" She shook her head in mock exasperation. "I had expected better, but you haven't even started. You expect falling to be a step?"

"Indeed. I believe dragon-riding is a step."

"For the last time, we ain't got one, you fool. Now stand up straight and—"

"I want to kiss the sky, but it's so far away," he murmured.

Khalentharia wavered for a moment, then turned to face him. "Then do it."

When he didn't move, she sighed and stepped forward. "You're a virgin boy, aren't you?"

"What? No—I mean—"

"In any case, you act like one." She looped her arms around his neck and gazed straight into his eyes. "Kiss me, you fool."

He did.

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

The retreat was cruel and hard, both physically and mentally. Their pride had been wounded and beaten down, and even so the Wainriders struggled on, though hope would soon be lost to them as leaves in the wind. When I passed they would cast haughty glances at me—all of them. They associated me with the choices of my father, for what I represented.

When the Wainriders rode to war their whole tribe went with them. It was only when they were three or five leagues from the site of the battle that they would make camp for those too young or frail or old to fight. Yet this time they did not travel so. The Wainriders who did not fight had remained in Morinórë as something like a hostage, to make sure that they fought in the battle for Lindon. Because of this, their anger for Mairon grew—he had forced them to leave their families behind and had them fight for Morinórë. Then, when the battle was nearly won, the Númenóreans arrived with their massive fleet in Lindon, and Mairon ordered them to retreat. _We could have won if they had not told us to back down,_ they were saying. I could see that in their eyes. They hated not only Mairon, but Insangar too, because he was the one that had repeated and enforced the order from what Mairon had told him. Now Insangar also represented something from Morinórë, and so did I.

We made camp tonight in the ruins of Eregion. Our progress had been slow; many had been wounded from the battle. Insangar watched dully as our handmaids prepared out tent, and there were others who glared haughtily at him as they set up their own. I left him standing there as I made my way through the camp, surveying our host and offering help when I could.

Yrenân, Insnagar's second-in-command, was trying to help a man bind his bloody leg, but he kept thrashing and howling. I headed over to help, watching the man at first. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another young man, only a boy, who I presumed to be his brother, standing nearby, observing me.

"I'm afraid we'll have to amputate it," Yrenân was saying, to which the man incessantly moaned _no, no, no._

I bent down to examine the wound. For a moment I remembered those words from so long ago. _A life for a life_. "That might not be necessary. The infection has not yet fully spread, and if we treat it well enough it could heal."

"How so?" the brother said, arms crossed.

I knew this was my time to demonstrate clearly that I was on their side, and not Mairon's. "I once possessed some. . .skills that would allow me to heal." I remembered my first flight falling off of Thangorodrim, the harnessing of my power, and Talethien's expression as I healed Silivros from death in the Second Kinslaying. The latter was dead now—because of me—and the former would soon be from this fruitless war, which was also partially my doing. I wondered if this was truly the way, then remembered that I must not doubt myself.

The brother made no reaction with his expression nor his movement, and merely stood there, waiting. I took that as a sign of approval. Yrenân glanced at me, perhaps uneasily, as my fingers reached forward to mingle themselves in the blood and mire of the wound. Then suddenly, the brother spoke.

"Your Highness."

I wavered, and turned. "Yes?"

"Please have some wine. You must be weary from the journey."

Ever so slightly, I cocked my head, surveying the boy. "If you insist. Thank you."

I accepted the cup courteously from him with an inclination of my head. Then as I observed the situation, I let my lips hover over the rim, inhaling.

"Is there a reason why you try to poison me, boy?" I said, handing the cup back to him.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then he lunged forward and barrelled himself into me, clawing and fighting—

My guards were on him in a moment, dragging him away from me and holding him by the arms as he spat blood on the grass before me.

"You are a deceiver, just as your father," he hissed. "If I had not done it first, you would have to my brother. You are no Wainrider. You will always be a stranger here, an enemy. You convinced us to fight your wars for naught, and here we are living and fighting and dying, as you stand unscathed—"

Yrenân kicked the boy. "How dare you speak to Her Highness as such!"

"—and you will continue to suppress us and our freedom until you win. And when we are all gone, you will stand there and you will feel nothing, only perhaps a slight bit of satisfaction that your plan has been successful. You will not care when an entire culture is completely dead."

"Gag him and take him away," Yrenân commanded, and immediately the guards thrust a rag in his mouth as he struggled, still trying to scream curses at me.

"No," I said. "Leave him be. He has done nothing wrong."

Yrenân glanced up at me. ". . .Your Highness?"

"You heard me."

Yrenân gave a sharp nod to the guards. "Let him go."

The boy collapsed to the ground, wheezing and spitting out more blood on the ground.

I turned and went away from them.


	69. Chapter III-X

CHAPTER X

* * *

— _Mairon—_

"Are you from here?" Mairon said, jerking his chin to the guard that had been standing by the door of his cell, casting odd glances one in a while to him. It had been some time since he had been stuck in this place, but he preferred it to the ships of Númenor. He surmised he was in the capital, somewhere close to Ar-Pharazôn. Perhaps he had done some good work of drawing the attention of the Númenórean king.

The guard was taken aback by his sudden words. He likely deemed Mairon a savage, incapable of speaking like a normal person. "Guards are not to speak with prisoners."

"Oh, is that so? Then it seems the rules are broken often." Mairon laughed softly. "Born in the capital, were you?"

It took him a moment to answer. "Yes."

"You seem young," Mairon observed.

"Twenty-seven with wife and child." He paused. "But I haven't seen them in months."

"Requirement of devotion to Ar-Pharazôn's cause?"

The guard seemed to be surprised Mairon knew this. "Yes."

Mairon nodded in understanding. "I suppose, then, you periodically send money back to them, and perhaps that is why you enlisted for this in the first place." At the guard's look of astonishment, Mairon knew he had guessed correctly. He had known what he had said by observing him—the way he stood, his demeanour, his disposition; he was less confident in his acts than the others. The first words 'Guards are not to speak with prisoners' had told him so.

"My. . .my family," the guard began, "never had very much money when I was growing up. My wife—she was a little better off than my family, but she still decided to marry me. Her father disowned her for it. Then when we managed to begin a business of our own, her father grew so envious of our success and angry at her choice of marriage that he accused us of stealing his money. Then. . .then we lost everything, and instead of throwing me in prison, they decided to make an use of me."

"Ah," Mairon said softly. "Nanyë nyérinqua." In Quenya it means _I am sorry,_ a way of expressing empathy, but literally it is _I am sorrowful._

The guard looked sharply up, shocked. There was a hint of emotion in his eyes from his revelation. "That tongue is prohibited in Númenor. You must not use it."

"Really, now?" _Interesting._ "A recent law, then?"

"Yes."

Mairon leaned forward, his chains clanking. His hands were begnning to tingle and numb. "Now, what would you think if everyone was equal, and no one was poor, nor rich? And you weren't obliged to be here, separated from your family. You could serve the king in tandem, and your child could grow up to be a great official of Númenor, running the systems of the country. Can you imagine that?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if," Mairon said softly, a dream of dreams within a dream, "there was no division of rich or poor, and everyone had all the same priviledges? If all money earned was put to the good of the community? If there was no more greed, no more suffering within anyone because we were all the same? Don't you understand? This could change so much."

The guard looked flatly at him, though beneath, Mairon could see something different in his eyes. "My watch is nearly over." Formally, he inclined his head, putting on the stiff disposition of a guard again. "Good talk."

But it was mere weeks later that the guard returned to him, periodically, to ask about this new notion of government. It was a child-like curiosity that had overcome him, it seemed, and also the burden of thinking of a life he could not have just yet. Mairon pitied the poor man; he was so young and had to struggle through so much, though he was still knee deep in mud, trying to claw his way out. Mairon laughed quietly to himself. _A dream of dreams within a dream._

* * *

— _Atharys—_

It was unfortunate that, mere days after Mairon had left Morinórë, the guards claimed that the setting of his 'imprisonment' was much too inconvenient and went to the steward that ruled in place of Mairon, who actually happened to be Tiríssë, the Maia of vigilance, to propose this matter. What was fortunate that Tiríssë was much too afraid to even bend Mairon's orders, and commanded that Atharys remain under strict watch, as Mairon had done. The guards were very disappointed. Tiríssë seemed to be a timid ruler, with a lack of authority, and so they decided that if _they_ bent the rules a little themselves, it would be no concern to him.

They might have hurt him, and sometimes made his bed run so thick with blood—perhaps not only his blood—that the blankets had gone stiff and crusty, but in the later days he did not remember much of it. Nor think much of it. He would have preferred to remember the tranquil days, the days when he learnt he had a sister and made connections with her. All he had wanted was peace, yet it seemed that peace was unattainable, so far away.

Some of the less extreme guards were on watch today, and they conserved at the doors as Atharys sat at his desk within. Though he could hear their indistinct murmurs as they spoke, he could not pick out the words. His lack of hearing might have been from the blow to the head yesterday—or was it the day before? He didn't know what he was doing, sitting casually at his desk, the windows walls and the doors barred. Perhaps in the beginning he had wanted to write something, to express what he felt, to make sure something would be known if he died here. He had not thought of that until now, and the sudden realization frightened him. With Mairon's absence, the audacious guards could do anything, and perhaps an accident may happen.

Suddenly he felt the urge to know what the guards were saying and shifted to stand up from his seat. A jabbing pain knifed through his side and he choked a little on his spit as he doubled over, coughing. Yet only a mere moment later, he straightened up and turned to the mumbling door. Slowly, quietly, heedful of every sound, every movement, he stole his way to press his ear against the wall, lest the door fall away.

". . .what good of a ruler is he if he surrenders after scarcely any peril? We could have won. The Eldalië in Lindon have grown weak in their years of dormancy."

The other barked a sharp laugh. "You might think so, but they will rally now to their High King after this little skirmish. Ironically, as their fear of Morinórë grows, their power grows."

"This should be fun." The one speaking paused for a moment. "Why not assault Lindon with a second wave? They will not expect it."

"It is too late, Cannadh. Why spend your energy on something that cannot be won?"

Another pause. Atharys strained his ears to hear. "Cannot be won?"

"Well, what can you expect?"

"Have you seen the Easterling hosts?"

"They lost Lindon."

A sigh. "That wasn't all of them."

"You think?"

The one called Cannadh wavered. "There is no point in talking about this. We can't do anything about it anyway, in the end."

Atharys stumbled back to his seat with unsuccessful discreetness, catching himself on the back rail of his chair and lowering himself down. When he recovered his breath, he wondered if the Elda—Glorfindel—had ever proposed the treaty of peace to Gil-galad. Perhaps then, they would have had a chance. . .but mistreatment changes many things, chiefly the ways of your mind. But for others, they still remember themselves.

 _No, Hith told me he was a good person._ Maybe he had never gotten to Lindon. Maybe something had happened along the journey. Maybe Gil-galad's ears never heard of peace with Morinórë. Atharys was dispirited by this; he had planned for things, many things to transpire with the treaty, but confined in his chambers, he could do nothing. He should have taken more care of his words when he spoke to his father. On that, he knew he should have listened to Hith. She was especially skilled in choosing her words when she spoke to their father, for some reason.

He decided it would be best for him to get some sleep while he had the chance. Staying awake and thinking of nothing would do him no good. As his sheets were currently unusable, he lay himself on his back on the floor, his hands folded at his chest. His eyes were dry from staring at nothing for so long, but he willed himself to close them into a brittle slumber. They hurt a little when he blinked too hard, likely from the lack of sleep.

Mere hours later, he was aroused by a sharp jab at his ribs. He had somehow rolled onto his side, curled up into a ball in a protective position, and when he woke there was a guard leaning down into his face.

"Lord Tiríssë has summoned you, Your Highness." Then the guard seemed to remember the role he was supposed to play. "Get up."

Atharys crawled to his feet, his hair disheveled and his garb stained with blotches of blood. They were still there from the previous nights he preferred to forget. Through the gloom, he peered up at the guard. "What does he want?"

"I am a mere guard. What am I supposed to know?" He moved away from Atharys to the door, and it was then Atharys realized that the guard was in fact an elleth. Interesting. It seemed Mairon decided he would gain popularity by decreasing the influence of patriarchy. With some effort, Atharys made it to his feet and staggered to where the guard was waiting.

"Your hands must be bound," she said.

Slowly, almost unwillingly but without resistance, he turned around and let her fit the irons around his wrists. They weren't too tight, but they were restraining. When Atharys turned to the door again, it had opened and there were two other guards with spears waiting to bring him to Tiríssë. He stepped forward, glancing at each of their veiled faces in turn, then let them direct him down the corridor.

The chamber they led him too was empty and vast. He waited in the center of it all, feeling vulnerable and weak, stuck in those chains and stuck in that situation, that position. Sometimes there wasn't anything he could do about it, even if he tried.

Tiríssë entered with his usual demeanour and garb, yet the former was laced with slightly more trepidation than usual, perhaps. There was an urgency to his gait that was not normally observed; though he walked somewhat slowly he walked with purpose. Again, Atharys hated the waiting period—the vulnerability.

What was amusing was that Tiríssë troubled himself with a slight bow before proceeding. "Your Highness."

Atharys inclined his head, stiffly. "Lord Tiríssë." The wound at his side was throbbing again.

Tiríssë opened his mouth, choosing his next words with care. "I would like to inform you that Lord Mairon has been captured and taken as a prisoner to Númenor."

Slowly Atharys lifted his head. "Captured?"

"Indeed. It seems your father had little schemes of his own when he set out for Lindon." Tiríssë spoke curtly. "He seems to like to keep his plans to himself."

"You associate me with my father," Atharys said, "yet I am nothing like him, you must understand."

"I understand very well, Your Highness, and that is why I have brought you here. I believe—" Tiríssë's right ear twitched and his eyes went unfocused. "We have a guest."

As if on cue, Hestáryn—once a lord in the court of Morinórë, leader of the mutiny of Eryn Galen, assassinator of Nínquë and many other things unknown to them—strode into the chamber, the dream of effectuation evident in the glimmer of his eyes.


	70. Chapter III-XI

CHAPTER XI

* * *

— _The Sojourner—_

She found Lórinand to be a tranquil place, a place of sorrow and rest at the same time, yet also reconciliation. It seemed everyone here slept during the day and rose during the night to enjoy life under the soft glimmer of the stars above; Lórinand was always softly illuminated by silver light. Everything moved so slowly, and nothing mattered very much. If she accidently bumped into someone, they could apologize and let it go so easily, so different from what she had remembered about people.

Her sleep was dreamless. They had given her some sort of silver drink to help her sleep untroubled, and so far she deemed that it worked, except she scarcely felt rested when she woke. Though she was no longer plagues by nightmares, she felt she had not slept when she opened her eyes again and had only closed her eyes for mere seconds. She could never get very comfortable, even lying down in a real bed with blankets softer than she could have ever imagined.

Tonight she found herself wandering through the realm of Lórinand, no one near nor in sight of her. This sort of solitude felt somehow welcoming and like a sort of home; it was her own sort of release, like breathing a sigh. She liked walking barefoot, feeling the textures of the grass upon the rough skin of her feet and feeling the crisp coolness of water when she stepped through a little stream. She liked it when the wind so lightly brushed against her face, like the gentle caress of a mother she never had. It had been so long since she liked the feeling of something.

She walked a little more before coming upon Lady Artanis, who had been standing there upon the path as if waiting for her.

"My lady," Taeloth said, inclining her head.

Lady Artanis's head had been bowed, and she only looked up at the sound of Taeloth's voice. She smiled politely and dipped her head. "I would refer to you by name, but you have not given it to me."

Taeloth faltered for a moment; she did not think she wanted them to know who she was. Some of them might know her old name. "Yressë."

"Mae govannen, Lady Yressë."

Taeloth bowed her head again in recognition.

Lady Artanis glanced at the path before them. "Walk with me."

They continued ahead in silent tandem, seeming to understand each other without having to speak. The path seemed to glow silver in the starlight, almost as if they were walking in a dream.

"I have been wanting to tell you something since the day you had come to Lórinand bearing Nenya," Artanis began, then paused, as if unsure of what she should say.

Taeloth did not know what to say, so she said nothing. She remembered that silence had been the most useful throughout her short years.

"Thank you," Artanis said at last, "for bringing the letter back to me, and Nenya also. Thank you for bringing Tyelpe back to us."

Again she did not know how to respond to that, so she merely inclined her head. Nonetheless, after a moment, she drew in a breath and opened her mouth. "I think you should know the truth."

"I know he made a lot of mistakes. I know him. But I don't know everything that he did. I'm not sure I need to." Artanis sighed, and turned to Taeloth. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

"I want to," Taeloth said.

Artanis turned away, and when she spoke again her voice was quiet. "Go on, then."

They had stopped walking, and Taeloth stood still, staring at the ground. It was only when she lifted her eyes that she spoke.

"He knew that the battle in Eregion would go ill. He had known that since the time of his capture, when the Gwaith-i-Mírdain fell, when the city of Ost-in-Edhil was painted with red. Yet he had also known that before his capture. Therefore he sent an emissary out of Eregion to Lórinand, and that emissary's name. . .his name was Églanim." She faltered, biting her lip so bitterly her teeth drew blood. "And he was my father, though I did not know until days before his death."

Lady Artanis's voice was a whisper. "Yressë—"

She pressed on. "The emissary was captured, unfortunately, and Nor—I found him in the dungeons of Morinórë, where he told me what had happened, and what to do. I told him—I told him I did not want to, and I would get him out, but Nor—but I couldn't." She willed herself not to cry—no, she couldn't, not in front of someone. "Lord Mai—Sauron— _Sauron_ —he killed my father, and mere hours later he killed Lord Celebrimbor." No, it was not true that Mairon had killed Églanim, not directly at least, but it was all the same. He would have done it anyway.

"You don't have to speak anymore, Yressë," Lady Artanis murmured, but her words were disregarded.

"So it was left to—to me to get Nenya to Lórinand. I was the only one left that could. Even if I didn't have any will to, I knew I had to. I was the only one left."

"Yressë." Lady Artanis took her hands and embraced her. "Yressë."

Taeloth had been crying for a while now, though she refused to admit it. Still she hid her tears, burying her face in Lady Artanis's shoulder, at last accepting an embrace. It consoled her in a way that she had not known, and perhaps it even brought her a little more ease.

"I was a slave." She clenched her fingers into fists. "I was a slave. In Morinórë. For most of my life. That is all I remember. Norkáwen."

Lady Artanis stroked her hair in quite a motherly way. "It's all right now, Yressë. It's all right now."

For a while Taeloth let herself be embraced by Artanis, silent tears soaking into her garb. Then abruptly Lady Artanis stood straighter, turning a little to the side, and Taeloth stepped back, drying her eyes. When she could see again, she found that the one called Dinaelin had approached them, concernedly glancing at Taeloth.

"My lady Artanis," the lieutenant said, dipping his head.

"Dinaelin," she returned, and motioned to Taeloth. "Her name is Yressë."

He inclined his head in return. "Lady Yressë."

Taeloth's voice was murmured and hasty when she spoke. "Lieutenant."

"His Grace Amdír has commanded me to inform you that. . .Lady Athaeben seems to have departed Lórinand, and Nenya has disappeared."

Taeloth raised her head in incredulity as Lady Artanis stepped forward indignantly.

"Disappeared?" Lady Artanis demanded. "What do you mean?"

"We. . .believe that Lady Athaeben stole Nenya," Dinaelin said. "She has left without a trace, taking nothing but what she came with. Though she may be blind, she is adept. After hours of scouting, we still have found nothing."

"Lórinand is vast, and she does not know this land. If we search well, we may yet find her." Lady Artanis strode forward and past Dinaelin. "Take me to where you stored Nenya."

"My lady—"

"We _will_ find Nenya, and we _will_ find Athaeben. I will find her," Lady Artanis said. "Do not object. You know it must be found. You know of its importance."

Dinaelin and Lady Artanis were already moving far away, leaving Taeloth standing there in the middle of the path, alone. She wondered what power Nenya truly held.

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

We still lingered by the ruins of Eregion, our host struggling too much to move on. I found myself spending tedious hours watching the sun set into the west as healers and comrades tended to the dying and wounded. Orange and red spilled from the sky into the horizon, lighting the ground as such that sometimes I thought I was standing in a field of blood, vultures circling overhead. They were waiting.

I turned away and made my way to the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil, grey and elegiac in the dimming eventide. The gates of the city were jammed with a tower that had fallen down before it. Here the stench of death was the most pungent; as I stepped forward to climb the stone I saw an arm lying lifeless beneath it.

The tower was relatively effortless to scale, as the windows and fissures served as grooves to help me climb to the top. It was furthermore broken in two; the small chunk of its bottom lay horizontally on the ground while the other part protruded out of the earth like a watchtower. I scaled my way to somewhere near the summit, and from there I had a clear view of the city. For a while I stood there, gazing out at the devastation I had wrought.

Eventually, I found myself wandering the ruins, climbing my way through fallen structures and ashes and bones. Unlike Lindon, Ost-in-Edhil had been this way for quite a while now. Smoke no longer laced the cracked ways, and what blood had been spilt on the earth had dried. I did not go to places where the bodies piled; the vultures had already gotten there, and what was left of that was plagued by the constant buzz of flies.

Insangar emerged from somewhere behind and stood beside me, looking out into the glaring eventide. He did not speak nor move to touch me, instead standing there, pensive, unlike his usual demeanour.

"You do not have the favor of your people. The tables have turned, and they will even more if you do nothing," I said.

He huffed and turned his head sharply around to the side as he did in indignance. "Do you think I not know?"

"If you do, you are not doing anything to solve the problem, which is the same thing as not knowing."

Insangar let out a bark of bitter laughter. "Ah, Hrysívë, you always amuse me so much."

"Do I?" I chuckled. "Isn't that so very fitting for a wife? To amuse and entertain her husband?"

"Very fitting." He followed me as I walked deeper into the ruins. "This is scarcely my fault. This is the doing of your father. How can _you_ say this?"

"My intentions have nothing to do with my father," I said.

"Ah, is that so? Then why—"

I lifted a hand. "I don't need to hear any more of your bullshit."

Insangar stalked before me, stopping me in my steps, and planted both hands on my shoulders. "You dragged me into this."

I was not looking at him, but to the side, at the decomposed face of a dead elleth. "Who was it that wanted the hand of the Princess of Morinórë?"

He ignored me. " _You_ were the one who convinced _me_ to support your father. If it weren't for you, we would have never fought in Lindon."

"You allied with Morinórë yourself."

"You coerced me to fight."

"Coerced?" I said. "Say, then, what did I tell you?"

"Your movements were discreet, of course, trivial. Small. I could not recount them if I tried as you had so deceptively weaved them into my mind that I did not even notice."

"That would be your own fault."

"So you admit to it." His voice was low now, low as the vanishing sun. Soon we would be cast in darkness.

"I said nothing to prove that."

Again he laughed humorlessly. "That was funny."

"Isn't that right?" I leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "Isn't that right?"

There was only the fleeting whistle of an arrow from behind Insangar before its barb stabbed into his shoulder, piercing through skin and flesh—then drove through the other side into my body.

He bellowed in pain and with a grunt, jerked sharply backwards, tearing the arrow out of my body. I scarcely had any time to recover before someone seized me and twisted my leg and crushed it to the ground at the wrong angle. There were tears in my eyes from the pain as my face was pressed against the ground, a knife at my throat. Someone bound my wrists behind my back.

When I could at last see again, I found Insangar was worse off. He had been fighting fiercely, but was outnumbered. Soon someone slammed the pommel of their blade on the back of his head and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Yrenân bent over me. "Your Highness."

The boy that had tried to poison me only days before was standing behind him.


	71. Chapter III-XII

CHAPTER XII

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

"Girl." It was the knight, Nîlzagar, shouting. "Girl, get over here."

"I'm coming," Narbeleth called, hurriedly tying her servant's garb behind her back. She clambered down the wooden corridor and found Nîlzagar shoving a lantern in her face, his face exasperated.

"Get your ass out of here and to Agatharan. I've never seen a servant so late."

Narbeleth dipped her head, too out of breath to say anything in return, and ran to the entrance of the veranda where Lord Agatharan was just emerging to. She helped him down the steps, supporting him with one arm, and held the lantern before them in the other. The yellow light looked like a full moon in contrast to the night.

Nîlzagar bowed as Lord Agatharan approached. "My lord."

"Where is Târik?" Agatharan demanded.

"We are to meet him in his gardens, my lord."

Narbeleth let Lord Agatharan step forward before following at his side, lighting their path with the lantern before her. Her head was constantly bowed, and she could not make eye contact with someone in a higher position than her. Nîlzagar came behind, guarding the rear, his hand always close to the hilt though there was no danger near. Narbeleth wondered where that habit had festered.

Lord Târik was waiting before his gardens, a servant like Narbeleth holding aloft a lantern at his side. When he raised his head, Narbeleth saw that he was an older man, perhaps fifty or so, and in the lines of his face thought and conflict were evident. His face broke into a jovial smile as he greeted Agatharan.

"Ah, Lord Agatharan." He stepped forward, the servant shuffling behind, and embraced him. "My old friend."

"Lord Târik." Agatharan gingerly returned the embrace, clapping the other on the back.

They began to stroll casually down the pathway of the garden. Narbeleth glanced at Lord Târik's residence on the other side, its windows bursting with yellow. There was scarcely very much movement going on inside, from what she could see; on occasion a servant passed into sight to rearrange a thing or two, but otherwise there was nothing.

The knight Nîlzagar jabbed her in the back. She had been so distracted by Lord Târik's residence that she forgotten to carry the lantern forward with Lord Agatharan. Hastily, she gathered herself together and hurried forward, mirroring the other servant.

"That _is_ interesting," Lord Târik was agreeing, his voice indicating that he was deep in thought.

"And instead of fleeing, he went before the court and made a speech. Publicly. The idiot guard who let him out was hailing him the entire time. Others came too, and soon they too were listening, and agreeing."

"What did he talk about?"

"Things that are not good for us." Agatharan sighed exasperatedly and shook his head. "Don't you know what this means? He spoke of equality for everyone, of peace, of wealth. The commoners were all listening to him. They will rise to support him. Can't you see—"

"But what were his principles? You haven't told me anything," Lord Târik said. "Your apprehension blinds you. Perhaps you should look at this in a different perspective."

"The working class always believes they are oppressed, and thus they want more power in the government. Now he—the so-called Lord of Gifts—wishes to gift Númenor with equality in the sense that there will be no more class divisions. All goods will be equally distributed. We're all the same. And this, Lord Târik, is the end of us."

Lord Târik merely laughed. "You are so close-minded, Lord Agatharan."

"What do you mean?" Agatharan demanded, his face sour with contempt.

"To run this system, of course, he will need officials."

"He said there would be no government—"

"Do you think every word he says is the truth?" Lord Târik mused. "Don't you know? He is known also to be the Lord of Deception."

"Exactly my point," Lord Agatharan said. "Every word he speaks is against us, against Númenor. He has something else in mind. He wants something else."

"What are you suggesting, then?"

Agatharan glanced behind them at the servants carrying the lanterns. Narbeleth hurriedly looked down, concentrating all her energy on the lantern. He seemed to deem them harmless then leaned forward to Lord Târik.

"He must be dead, for the sake of Númenor. We must kill him."

Lord Târik sighed. "I had expected you to say that, Lord Agatharan."

"Well?" he demanded.

"I may aid you, but I will take no direct part. I would prefer to stay in the safe zone."

"And I, likewise, expected you to say that," Agatharan drawled.

"Then there is no problem," Lord Târik said. "What is your plan?"

"None, as of now. I came to you to propose this idea and come up with one."

"I have a suggestion for you." Lord Târik seemed to walk faster, as Agatharan was suddenly hurrying to keep up. "Stay where you are. See what happens. Bide your time. If we work for the position, we will sure to become officials for this new system, and we will be in his favor. And you seem to be overthinking this very much. The Lord of Gifts is still a prisoner here, confined and watched under the eyes of Ar-Pharazôn himself."

"I know—"

"You can't know anything for sure," Lord Târik said. "Do as I told you. I promise things will turn out in your favor if you do. If you say nothing, do nothing against authority, how will there be conflict?"

Lord Agatharan drew in an uncertain breath. "I suppose. . .I can do as you say. What choice do I have?"

"None, of course. You have already said too much."

"I trust your gardens are unwatched by unwanted eyes," Agatharan said quietly.

"And also guarded against unwanted ears. You are in good hands with me. Just say no more."

They went on about more trivial things, and from then on Narbeleth was scarcely listening. But when they had returned and Agatharan retreated to his chambers, she took off her servant's garb and slipped out of Lord Agatharan's residence and into the rain. A horse with a carriage snorted and pawed the ground at the end of the street, the driver's voice and others shouting. Lanterns bobbed in the fog. Narbeleth glanced to both sides of the road then hurried across. She hid herself in the shadows of the bushes, sidling by the streets and making dashes when she came to the road.

At last she came to the house of the plantation she had worked at, where she had stayed with all the other children. The door was slightly ajar, and it creaked a little when she eased it open. It was quiet inside, and someone was snoring at the end of the hall.

"Narbeleth?" someone whispered.

She turned abruptly to find Gyldin, the boy she had saved from the fall, before her. She opened her mouth to say something, but even the soft whisper had roused others.

A pair of eyes peered at her in the darkness. "Narbeleth?"

The others began to wake, one by one, until someone lit a candle and her face was revealed. They all began to chant her name, hailing her for saving Gyldin, though she still remembered the cry of the other boy that had fallen. She caught a glimpse of Farothon on the side of the crowd, quiet and unspeaking. They made silent eye contact, but Narbeleth was broken away from it by someone.

"You've come back." Gyldin was ecstatic, his words somehow heard over the cheer of the other children. "We thought they had executed you too."

"No," she said. "I'm here."

* * *

— _Rhystórë—_

"I am glad to know that you honor your promises," Khalentharia mused as they sauntered over the pier, the sun dipping down the horizon. "You told me once you would bring me to Belegaer, show me the beauty of the sea, and here we are. It is as beautiful as you promised."

Rhystórë smiled, squeezing her hand. "This is yet only one promise."

"You mean to say you're ready to break some?"

"Probably," he admitted.

She laughed and leaned her head sideways into his shoulder as they stared off into the eventide together. A few gulls were running around on the sand, chasing each other and the waves. They did not try for very long, however; when the wave crashed, they would squawk and fly off.

"This is nothing like the Sea of Núrnen." Khalentharia ran her fingers along the smooth wood of the railing. "Hence the name. You can't drink the water, you know, but sometimes the children don't know that. Quite a few of them have died from the water's poison."

"You can't drink Belegaer's water, either," Rhystórë said. "The salt dehydrates you."

"Mhm." Khalentharia glanced up to look at him. "Why are we talking about salt and dying babies?"

He laughed nervously. "Maybe because we don't want to talk about other things?"

"I still think we should have stayed in those mountains. We still have time, though. We could go back there, away from all this chaos."

"Chaos," Rhystórë murmured. He wanted to tell her that they had in fact just succeeded; Belyswë had accepted the ring from Morinórë without trouble, which signified their alliance. Nonetheless, he said nothing else, as he knew she likely would say otherwise. _So loyal, Númenórean? What's the hurry? Why do you care? Is it really that you have grown fond of the regime of Morinórë or do you merely wish to see your brother again?_ He did not know. Perhaps he truly cared of none of this. Perhaps they should go away from here, before the fire swept through them all.

"What will happen after this?" he wondered aloud.

Khalentharia sighed exasperatedly. "Well, it seems that Lond Daer and Morinórë are now allies in this war that Lord Mairon has waged. The war will continue, and many will die, including my people, the Wainriders. Yours will too, now, because you have dragged them into it from this alliance. They would have been in it, anyway, so not like it would have made much of a difference. But who knows which side will win? Neither is more righteous, I would say."

Rhystórë felt suddenly burdened by this talk. Sometimes the future did not seem like it would go in his favor. "I don't want to talk about this." He pulled Khalentharia close and kissed her, almost hungrily, because he was so frightened of losing her to the future.

She laughed against his lips. "You're such a fool."

"I know," he murmured. "Oh, I know." Rhystórë breathed in her scent—aspen and snow and wild grass. For so long she had lived free in the grass seas. They could do it again. Avoid the war. Wait until it was over to return. He wanted so badly to be free too.

Khalentharia pulled back. "In the mountains, we could have a child. We could raise them without the terrors of Morinórë. There is a life out there that we can forge, together."

His head reeled at the thought of them having a child. "Just don't name it Seaweed."

Again she laughed then poked him on the nose, as if he were the baby. "No. Seaweed Junior."

Rhystórë's eyes widened in mock surprise. " _No._ That is the absolute _worst_ idea you could ever come up with."

Her eyes sparkled. "I know. But it's perfect."

"Not."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's clearly not."

Khalentharia mock huffed. "I don't understand. Even though you're so narrow-minded, you have such a nice ass. It doesn't make any sense."

He reddened. "How does narrow-mindedness correlate to the niceness of an ass?"

"I cannot believe you don't understand. You just don't understand."

Someone from behind cleared their throat. "Lord Rhystórë. Lady Khalentharia."

Rhystórë turned stiffly, his face likely still flushed, to find one of Belyswë's servants kneeling before them. He remembered his courtesies and inclined his head. "Greetings."

"If I may speak, Lord Belyswë has summoned you to his solar. Both of you."

"Ah." Khalentharia stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. "And what is his purpose, may I ask?"

The servant bowed his head a little deeper. "He would not tell me."

Khalentharia glanced sideways at Rhystórë before turning back to the servant. "Take us to him."

"As you wish, my lady."

The servant went first, Khalentharia next, then Rhystórë following; he was reluctant to go, reluctant to leave their tranquility together in the pier. He rushed up to Khalentharia and grabbed her hand, and opened his mouth as if to say, _Let's go away now. Let's go away to those mountains, and name our child Seaweed Junior, no matter how stupid that is._ But he only shared a long look with her, and said nothing.

They walked on. When they at last reached Belyswë's solar, Rhystórë felt like it had been forever though the walk had not been very long. The lanterns in the corridors dimly lit the face of the servant, who dipped his head and motioned toward the door, waiting aside.

"He is waiting," the servant said.

Khalentharia strode forward and twisted the handle (with some difficulty, though she had gotten more skilled at door-opening). She went in first, her chin lifted high and her gait phlegmatic, as if she feared nothing. That was one of the things Rhystórë admired about her; whenever he was frightened of something, she would always look so at ease that it would trick him into thinking that nothing was wrong.

Belyswë was sitting within at his desk, scrawling out words on parchment. When they entered, he looked up and his face broke into a jovial and welcoming smile. He spread his arms. "Ah. Greetings, brother. My lady."

"Well met, Lord Belyswë," Khalentharia drawled, the niceties coming too easily.

Rhystórë himself said nothing, even when Belyswë sauntered forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What is wrong, brother? You look so dismal today."

He forced a polite smile. "Nothing, quite frankly. Why have you called us tonight?"

Belyswë laughed. "So intent to get on with it? Very well." Striding back to his desk, he sipped at a cup of wine. "You have, indeed, presented me with the token of an alliance with Morinórë. I have accepted. I wear it here, on my finger." The bronze ring's glint caught the light as he held up his hand. "But now, I seem to be having doubts. Tidings have just come to me." He waited then, taking a long quaff of his drink, as if he enjoyed their trepidation.

"What tidings?" Khalentharia said.

"Ah. Only that Morinórë has just lost the battle against Lindon, due to the landing of Ar-Pharazôn's fleet. They have captured Sauron and taken him back to Númenor as prisoner. Now, I wonder, why should I ally with Morinórë? I would be going against my king. And furthermore, it seems I would be choosing the losing side."

Rhystórë and Khalentharia were silent.

Belyswë leaned forward to look into their eyes. They looked past him. "Hm?"

Still, nothing.

"The Lord of Lond Daer has asked you a question."

The crackling of the fire was suddenly very loud.

"All right then." Belyswë settled back into the chair at his desk with a grunt. "I will give you until tomorrow to give me an answer. Go then, if you have nothing more to say."

Slowly, Rhystórë backed out of the room and to the door, making quick bursts of eye contact to indicate Khalentharia to follow. She lingered a moment longer, glaring at the ground, before heading out after him.

The servant had gone, and they made their way wordlessly down the corridor.

At last, when the silence was too deafening, Rhystórë turned fiercely to Khalentharia. "We have to leave. Tonight."

She made no answer, so he pressed on.

"We have nothing left to give Belyswë. He has the ring for now, he is content, but what use will it serve him if Morinórë is ash? He knows himself—we are the losing side."

"The ring gives him _power,_ " Khalentharia said suddenly. "I don't think you understand, but that thing contains power that was weaved under the necromancy of Lord Mairon."

Rhystórë huffed. "I don't believe in that shit."

"Likely because you have not seen it. I told you. So narrow-minded."

"We're leaving tonight."

Khalentharia sighed. "I don't suppose there's anything else we can do."

"No," he said. "No."

Hastily they returned to their chambers and packed what scant supplies they needed for wherever they were going to go. Perhaps they would wander for a little while, away from the war, and they would go to those mountains, that dream of spring.

"We can get horses at the place by the gates," Rhystórë said as they ducked under cover of shadows.

She did not reply. A fierce look was in her eyes, yet something doubtful too, almost frightened. He followed the direction of her gaze.

"Oh, shit."

Torches embalmed the night air, the fire immersed in an unceasing chant. The people of Lond Daer had rallied at the gates, but for what he did not know.

"Dunlendings," Khalentharia said, answering his thoughts. "A protest against the Dunlending invasions." She began to stride forward, with purpose. "Best we move quickly."

Silently Rhystórë agreed, shadowing her steps. They both knew that they would have to pass the mob. He threw his cloak at her.

"Put this on. The hood will cover your face."

"I am not a Dunlending."

He sighed. "I know. Unfortunately, they can't tell the difference."

She aggressively jerked the hood over her head and continued on the street. "If they suspect you, pretend to be one of them."

"And you?"

"I will. . .attempt that too."

They drew nearer to the mob. Some held signs, but very few. Most were unlettered; to know how to read and write seemed to be something magical. Thus the commoners, consistently awed by their rulers, found no faults in the government unless they were improperly fed. This was one of those occasions.

Khalentharia pushed her way through the throng of people, and Rhystórë desperately shoved his way across after her. He kept his head down and only let himself glance fleetingly up to find traces of her again. She came in and out of sight, the crowd rising and falling like a lethal wave. He counted the seconds before he could see any trace of her again. One, two—There she was, pulling back. One, two, three, four—Nearly one heartbeat too long. One, two, three, four, five, six—

Rhystórë was beginning to panic now. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—He could not see her amidst the chaos, the shouts, the jostles. Someone elbowed him in the ribs. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—

He dared to call her name.

"Khalentharia!" he shouted. " _Khalentharia!"_

Then suddenly she was right by him again, a teasing smile on her face. "What is it, Númenórean?"

He hadn't realized he had been holding his breath. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I can't hear you," she said. "These bitches are so loud."

Somehow, they made it to the other side of the mob, and now all that loomed before them was the gates, prowling with guards.

"Are there no. . .secret doors?" Khalentharia said blatantly.

"No shit. You know Belyswë. Cover your face."

"It is."

The guard at the gate was stiff and formal as he exchanged a nod with Rhystórë, who handed the papers to him. He found himself again holding his breath as the guard frowned at the paper, then realized smalltalk could serve as a good distraction.

"How do you do tonight, sir?" Rhystórë inquired.

"Fine."

 _Not a talker, then._ "The night is beautiful tonight, isn't it? The moon should fall upon us soon."

"Not literally, I hope." The guard glanced up at Rhystórë from the papers. "Trade with Harlindon?"

"Yes, sir."

"The imports have only just come. Where are your products?"

"My chief executive is sending me there to negotiate some things. I need only my brain, and my tongue," Rhystórë told him.

"Hm." The guard jerked his chin at Khalentharia. "And this one?"

"My companion."

"Show his face."

"Sir, I—" Rhystórë stopped, then seeing no choice, lowered his head.

Khalentharia turned her face slowly toward the guard then lowered her hood.

"Hm," the guard said again. "All right. You may pass."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a moment." Three others, guards presumably, stepped into the torchlight.

"Your face. . .rings a bell," one of them mused, circling Khalentharia. "Why can't I recall? You seem so familiar. Ah, yes. I remember now. Were you not that Dunlending girl that attacked a guard? Do not attempt to deny me. Tonight, I do not believe I am mistaken."

She lifted her eyes to stare straight into the man's eyes, and it was in that moment that she and Rhystórë shared an unvarnished thought. _If we do not fight today, we never will._

Khalentharia unsheathed her daggers and slammed them at the man, but he thrust the first guard before himself as a shield. The dagger pierced into his eye, red spurting onto the man's hands and onto Khalentharia's face. She twisted sideways to pierce him in the ribs but he seized her by the throat and hurled her to the ground. Rhystórë had scarcely drawn his blade before Khalentharia's daggers lay bestrewn on the ground and they were dragging her away—

" _No!"_ he screamed, the barred doors rattling as he shook them fiercely. " _No._ I swear by the breath and blood of Númenor—I'll kill you all. _I'll kill you all!"_

* * *

 _A/n: Please let me know what you think!_


	72. Chapter III-XIII

CHAPTER XIII

* * *

— _Atharys—_

"Lord Tiríssë calls for your presence." The same elleth guard jabbed him in the ribs with the butt of her spear, sharply waking him.

 _Again? The last time it had not ended well._ Atharys was more or less irritated by the disruption; he had scarcely been getting any sleep, and today was one of those rare nights that he was able to sleep undisturbed—until the guard. Now he knew how, not just understood how, sleep deprivation could be such an effective method of torture. Mairon would often order the guards to constantly keep their prisoners awake, especially if he wanted answers. They eventually would do anything, just to get a little bit of rest, of peace.

Nonetheless, he appeased his emotions and rose slowly to his feet. At least he would have tidings on Hestáryn's fate; the moment after Hestáryn had sauntered into the room during Tiríssë and Atharys's conference, Tiríssë had ordered the guards to take Atharys away so he could deal with this inconvenience—or perhaps more than simply an inconvenience. Atharys surmised the latter.

"Where are we headed to this time?" he inquired of the elleth.

Her reply was brusque. "Lord Tiríssë's chambers."

"Not a daunting empty chamber this time? It seemed the last one could fit a dragon."

She made no response to his attempt at humorous smalltalk, and he understood that. Sometimes words were only there to fill space and distract minds from necessary thoughts.

Promptly they arrived after ascending some substantial flights of spiraling stairs. Lord Tiríssë, to Atharys's content, had not taken Mairon's chambers during his stewardship, but had kept his own. He supposed that was a good sign.

Two servants waiting in the corridor bowed to both the guard and Atharys, who returned the well-manneredness with a dip of his head. The doors squealed open, and the elleth led him inside, his hands still bound with a rope.

Lord Tiríssë was sitting at his desk, waiting for him; he was not doing anything else—not writing, not drinking—only watching him as the elleth situated him before the table. "Your Highness."

Atharys inclined his head. "My lord Tiríssë."

The elleth bowed curtly then departed the chamber, leaving Tiríssë and Atharys alone.

"How do you do, Your Highness?" Tiríssë inquired casually, as if pretending that the Prince of Morinórë was most definitely not a prisoner in his own realm.

"Not so well, actually," Atharys said. "My back hurts day and night—I have not been able to sleep without being disturbed by those guards you have placed at my door. And my wounds pain me. Did you know one of them stabbed my leg, on 'accident', Lord Tiríssë?"

"No, in fact, I did not know, and I did not place those guards at your door. Your father did. Neither was it my order to imprison you, I believe."

"Ah, yes. Of course you have not taken part in any of this. Forgive me."

Tiríssë gave him a bloodless smile. "Thank you for understanding, Your Highness."

"To that there is no issue. If I may ask. . ."

"Go on."

Atharys felt his numbed hands tingle. "What has become of Lord Hestáryn? If I recall correctly, he is indeed the murderer of Lord Nínquë and the leader in the mutiny of Eryn Galen. If he has done all of this, I do not doubt that more crimes have festered since then."

"Neither do I," Tiríssë said, but he gave no further response.

Atharys waited. "Well?"

"I have pardoned Lord Hestáryn. What he did last time was a mere mistake of naïveness. I am sure your father would do the same."

Atharys felt an incoherent urge to laugh. "Naïveness, you say?"

"Naïveness," Tiríssë said.

"All right—perhaps Eryn Galen was a mistake of naïveness, but killing Lord Nínquë—"

"He did not kill Lord Nínquë. That too, was a mistake, yet one on our part. We had not investigated thoroughly. It was the servant girl that had murdered Lord Nínquë. Lord Hestáryn says you know this girl, or have seen her, more than once. Your father stripped her of her name and named her Norkáwen."

Atharys remembered, and he felt a bitterness in his mouth. "I know of the girl, yes."

"It was her. The case is closed, and there will be no further discussion on the matter."

Atharys saw no further outcome in protesting otherwise; the girl was dead anyhow. They said she had leapt some time after the death of Lord Nínquë.

Tiríssë opened his mouth again after the brief pause. "As for you—"

The doors opened, and Hestáryn strode into the room, filling the room with another larger presence.

"Your Highness!" Hestáryn exclaimed. "Come, servants, release him from those cruel bonds and bring him a good chair to rest in. Ah, Your Highness, forgive me for letting them treat you so poorly. You deserve so much more than this."

The servants had cut the bonds from his wrists and pushed a chair before him, but he did not move, and instead stared directly at Hestáryn.

"Lord Hestáryn." Atharys inclined his head, all saccharine courteousness. "A pleasure to see your return."

"I know," Hestáryn said. "Sit, sit, if you will."

"I prefer to stand."

"If you must." Hestáryn glanced at Tiríssë. "I have convinced Lord Tiríssë to release you from imprisonment, due to need. The war twists in dire directions."

"I see," Atharys said. "Thank you."

"We will need very much help from you, as you need help from us, you see. Then we can all be content."

"Yes, indeed," Atharys agreed. "Helping each other is the utmost way to greatness."

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

Sweaty hands ripped the blindfold from my face.

"Chieftain. Your Highness," Yrenân drawled, inclining his head in mockery. "Did you sleep well?"

Neither of us gave an answer. Insangar and I had been forced on our knees before Yrenân, and while Insangar's teeth were gritted and his jaw clenched as he glared daggers up at Yrenân, I found myself gazing indifferently into his face, as if I already knew the outcome, and it would all only be a passing thing. The pair of Wainriders that had torn the blindfolds off us circled around us once then stepped to the side to stand stiffly at the perimeter of the room, deaf to all but orders.

"Ah, I see." Yrenân stepped forward in a leisurely yet calculating gait. "Or perhaps I should call you Chieftain no longer. For I surmise you already know of my purpose, don't you? Though you did not see it coming until I was upon you. Quite foolish, I would say. It was quite evident all along."

Insangar looked as if he wanted to raise a haughty, shaking finger right into Yrenân's face and dig his eyes out, carefully, slowly. "You _bastard._ "

Yrenân laughed. "That I know. Or at least I know that is what you think of me. No one would like it very much if their place was usurped, would they?"

"You ask quite a bit of questions, boy. I think you'd like some answers along with them."

"Ah, of course. That is what I have always wanted." Yrenân turned his eyes to me, walking sedately from Insangar to me. Insangar's eyes followed him like a watchful tiger ensnared behind bars. "Look at me," he said softly, leaning into my face.

I did. His eyes were brown and flecked with amber, and I wondered how an Atan's eyes could be so unique. The latter color reminded me too much of my father, and though I had a sudden, vehement urge to look away because of that, I did no such thing. From the corner of my eye, I could see Insangar's eyes widening in shock and rage as Yrenân cupped my face in his hands and pressed his lips to mine.

"How do you do, Your Highness?" The voice was a mere whisper.

"However your will wishes," I said.

Yrenân chuckled to himself, and his hand brushed my cheek, tenderly. "This one knows how to play the game. Your Highness, I would like you to talk to me. Tell me some things. Can you do that for me?"

My gaze was cast down for a moment, but then I slowly turned my face to Insangar. He was trembling, somehow, and I knew that he was frightened.

"I may, without him." My words were directed toward Insangar. "He hinders my words much too often."

"You whoring _bitch!"_ Insangar screamed, stumbling forward and falling on his face. The guards were on him in a mere moment, seizing his already bound arms. He strained to break free, hissing and spitting curses at Yrenân and I too, but the new Chieftain was too far away for him to reach.

Yrenân jerked his chin subtly at the guards, and they dragged Insangar away. I watched him go, watched his raging eyes swearing revenge upon me. I wondered why that was directed toward me, and not the one who had truly taken his position. Yrenân waited for me to turn back to him, surveying me, his hands still on my shoulders.

"You know I don't need him anymore," he said.

I made no response.

"I only need the people to be further proven of his guilt. They already hate him. How much more do they need? My people are spent," Yrenân told me. "We need food, rest, provisions. And to get that we'll need Morinórë."

For a moment I did not answer. Then slowly, I lifted my eyes to his face. "I never supported him in my heart, you know. My father. I never did."

"Sometimes, Your Highness, I cannot be sure whether or not to believe the words you speak. That makes you much like your father, I would say. How would you like the title of Lady of Deception?" Yrenân laughed quietly to himself. "That makes no matter nonetheless. What is in your heart is not seen by others. It is your title, your position, and your actions that make a difference to them. And those I need from you. Can you do that for me?"

"I want to tell you something," I said.

Yrenân raised his brow. "Go on, then."

"But first, I want to know—how do you plan to use me for your benefit?"

"Food and provisions. A ransom to Morinórë for those and and a higher position in the court. Without your father's leadership the others are nothing but weaklings. They will give in easily; they have no other choice. And perhaps I, too, would like to use you for other purposes…purposes for myself."

"So you deem yourself no longer allied with Morinórë."

"Evidently." His words were clipped. "Yet not only have I severed our ties with Morinórë, but we will _become_ Morinórë."

"Ah," I said. "You wish for my father's position, then."

Yrenân smiled strangely. "Tell me what you were going to say."

"I already suspected that this was what you wanted to do, but I only wanted to verify. I am glad of your ambitions, Yrenân, and I support them. I would like to swear my allegiance to your cause, my lord." My words were a mere whisper, and I spoke quickly, like the wind. "If you would have me."

Something in his face changed as I spoke, from confusion to surprise and back to the cool demeanour, veiling emotions.

"Tell me why."

Now it was my turn to twist that strange smile onto my lips. "I have already."

Yrenân stood, and turned away for a moment. I watched him pace in a circle around the room, contemplating, then at last, he turned back to me. "You will validate yourself to me." He stepped back to where he had been standing before me, and I had to look up to hold his gaze. "In many ways."

The next night was the ritual. I found myself standing before a gagged and bound Insangar, a burning forest of people with torches encircling me. He was in the center of the circle, while I still stood on the perimeter, waiting. Their sonorous chants boomed ubiquitously, beating in such an uniform tattoo that it mirrored the thumping of my heart in my chest.

I felt Yrenân's hand on my lower back, telling me to stay. He went forward to Insangar, his arms raised up to the sky as if he was taking in the people's incantation, as if that would somehow be the solution for the whole damn situation he had gotten himself mixed up in. Some words were spoken, some rallying words, no doubt, but I was scarcely listening. If I had been, I would not have heard it anyway; the throng of people were shouting so loudly that I would not have understood his words.

Yrenân bade me go forward, and I did. Things seemed suddenly to go quiet, to slow down. I glanced to the side, to a blazing torch, but it was hazy—like bright orange fog. I almost expected the fire to drift off the torch and waft into the air, enveloping us all. Perhaps that would happen someday. Perhaps I would even live to see this world end in fire.

The only thing I could hear was the thumping of my heart, reverberating through my head and my body. I could feel it in my bones—I could feel them shake at the thought of it. Though Yrenân's face was before me, I saw none of it, not even when we exchanged a bow and he presented the dagger to me.

 _I would gladly see my blood glistening on your lips, and your mouth gasping for air, as the life is sucked out of you._ That I had told him—Insangar—as he damned me to the chastisement of the loss of my wings. His face was defiant now, though I could see his terror beneath the mask. He didn't believe I would do this to him. We had known each other for a while, gotten to know each other perhaps a little, and sometimes we even understood each other. He was never very cruel to me unlike most believed him to be, and he had allowed me more power in Wainrider society than I would have ever had with others. Yet some things. . .some things had to be done. I remembered what I had already done to ensure my intentions would carry out right in the end. This was no more different.

I dragged the dagger across my forearm, the blood streaming out deep and scarlet, the ungolócë laced within it. _Serpent in the shadows—_ that was what the word ungolócë itself meant. It sounded so cold-hearted, so merciless. I wondered if that was what I was. I think Insangar was screaming something at me, tears streaming down his face. _Please,_ he was begging. _Please, no._ It's a pity to die as such a craven, after being a powerful chieftain for so long.

It was strange watching my hands force his face up even as he struggled, still pleading. A guard came to pry his mouth open, like a child tilting their head up to taste the rain.

And like the rain, I let my ungolócë blood plummet into his mouth. I watched the drops fall, my mind seeing it all from a distance. I do not know how long I stood there, merely watching it all transpire, but what I do remember are the people dancing around us—as he fell.

* * *

 _A/n: Satisfied? Disappointed? Spill it all :)_


	73. Chapter III-XIV

CHAPTER XIV

* * *

— _Mairon—_

Though all his heart felt was agitation and anger, he knew his mein had to appear calm and pensive. He gazed over Ar-Pharazôn's private garden, the people of the city beyond the walls, and he knew they were watching.

 _The best lies are the half-truths._ Breathing in deeply, Mairon attempted to fill his mind with thoughts of peace, with remembrances of a land lost to him He fixed his gaze upon the garden below him, calming his eyes by looking yet not really seeing, immersing himself in old thoughts he had not dared to think of in so long. These gardens. . .they resembled the gardens of Estë, where he had spent much of his younger days. Stone statues hidden throughout the green labyrinth were entangled in vines, but their eyes were empty and melancholy, unlike how it had been in Valinórë.

Pharazôn cleared his throat from behind him.

"You've been watching me," Mairon said, not turning.

The king of Númenor was quiet; he likely expected Mairon to collapse to his knees and beg for mercy, as he would be so used to that. Or perhaps he expected him to whip hidden daggers into his hands and attempt to assassinate him then and there. Yet Mairon was not made to be that way. He would not let himself fall that low even if he had to. It was unnecessary, anyhow, for his success in Númenor.

"You are a hostage here," Pharazôn said at last. "It is customary to do so. Standard."

"Ah, yes, that is known." Mairon knew if he spoke no more words now, Pharazôn would be more impressed with him, and humiliated with himself. Less words meant more to proud kings, for they oft hear too many.

Pharazôn chuckled and strode forward, leaning on the rail overlooking the gardens beside Mairon. "In truth, I did not think you would be this way. When I crossed the sea to conquer your forces storming upon Lindon, I expected more of a fight, for someone as audacious as ou. Instead you surrendered the moment you saw your forces were dying, as if you cared about their lives."

"One cannot rule if they have no consideration for their people."

"Indeed." Pharazôn turned to him. "Now tell me, how did you manage to coerce the guard to let you out?"

"I did not coerce him," Mairon said. "I asked him."

"Oh? Then tell me, _Lord Sauron_ , how is it that my very disciplined guards and soldiers be suddenly swayed by your words? They have served me for all their lives. They are _loyal_ to me."

"And your guard is still loyal to you. I did not flee, did I? Instead I came to you, to talk to you, but you refused me." Mairon turned for the first time, but Pharazôn was looking down, silent. "Yet you are here, listening now, and it matters not. We can put our old grudges aside, can we not? You see, I painted a picture, for your guard, of a better world. The reign of Númenor has grown imbalanced, and that must change."

"Speak clearly. What did you tell him?" Pharazôn demanded.

"I asked him. . .what if," Mairon murmured, so softly that Pharazôn had to strain to hear, "what if there was no division of rich or poor, and everyone had all the same privileges?" A vague smile touched his lips.

Pharazôn was quiet for a moment, and they both gazed at the gardens below for no apparent reason. At length Mairon spoke again.

"You do know. . .that the design of these gardens has been devised after those in Valinórë."

"Is it?" Pharazôn said blatantly.

"Yes, it is not quite. . ." Mairon made a show of meditative thought. ". . .Númenórean enough."

"Oh? You have some interesting thoughts, indeed. And I was not wrong. You are quite audacious for a hostage." Pharazôn stepped forward, leaning in close to his face. "You could lose your tongue, if I ordered it to be so. You could lose a finger, or two."

Mairon bowed his head. "I understand, Your Majesty."

That only seemed to annoy Pharazôn more. He turned away, striding to the guards. "Take him back."

Amusement seeped into Mairon's face as he stood and held his hands out to the guards. They fitted chains to his wrists once again, and directed him back to the cell. He knew the process would be slow and perhaps tedious, but the gears had already begun to turn.

* * *

— _Rhystórë—_

"You have always been rather predictable," Belyswë said, his boots _click_ ing upon the stone floor as he circled around Rhystórë. The former lieutenant was not bound or confined in any way, but the guards had disarmed him when they brought him back to Belyswë from the gates.

Daybreak was seeping into the sky; Rhystórë knew from the grey light trying to claw its way through the drawn curtains. They cast strange shadows upon the floor, like singing ghosts. Belyswë stepped over one of them as he completed his circling and stood directly before him. Rhystórë, his face cast to the ground, could only see Belyswë's boots, and from the outline of them he could tell there were daggers stuck in each of them.

"Hm?" Belyswë murmured. "Don't you think?"

 _It was the only choice I had._ Rhystórë stood silent and unmoving.

Belyswë extended his hand and lifted Rhystórë's chin to meet his gaze. "But I've changed my mind."

Relief, fear, uncertainty—they were all mixed into one in Rhystórë's eyes. In his mind a thousand moments blended—memories, reveries, hopes—he thought of Khalentharia and himself starting a new life south where they couldn't find them, with their child. . .

"Lond Daer will ally with Morinórë. And—" Belyswë took his time to finish his long drawl of a sentence. "I will allow you to see the Easterling girl, _if_ you give me the other rings."

Rhystórë scarcely knew where his duties lay. "I-I don't have the others—"

"You do." Belyswë stepped forward, his face mere inches from Rhystórë's. "Don't you think—it would be so. . .tragic for one to die so cold and alone."

Rhystórë drew in a shuddering breath, exhaling slowly. He clasped his hands together, feeling the callouses he had developed in his long childhood years of trying to be a knight. It looked like he was fumbling, but without the jerky apprehension that often came with it. When he opened his palm again, three bronze rings lay glittering there, and their luster drew Belyswë's eyes to them.

"Good," Belyswë murmured as he seized them out of Rhystórë's palm. "Very good. I am sure she would be very proud of you."

Rhystórë turned away.

"Bring him to the Easterling," Belyswë commanded, and his guards came forward to take him to the dungeons.

A languid walk, four levels down, and several grey corridors later, he found her. The guard _clang_ ed the door shut behind him as he staggered forward, stumbling to the ground. He was shaking so much that he could scarcely say her name as they threw their arms around each other, tears mingling with the grime on their faces.

"Why are you here, why did you come back? You should have run away, far from here. Why did you let them take you?" Khalentharia had squeezed her eyes shut, as if she didn't want to believe that he was here. Beneath the meager cloak, she was naked, stripped of everything. Rhystórë was angered by what they had done, but he stifled it as an irrepressible emotion knifed through his heart. He didn't know he could feel that way—so hurt that he could feel a dragging burden upon his chest and a literal _stab_ upon his heart. Even when he heaved in a great sigh he could not feel consolation, not even for a single moment.

"Promise me, Rhystórë, that you will go far away and never return. _Please._ " She held a firm grip upon his forearm despite her weakness. "Promise me."

He shook his head. "No. I cannot."

"Why? Tell me _why._ "

"You think Belyswë will just let me walk away from here?" Though he had spoken the words, Rhystórë knew they were a mere excuse.

Khalentharia seemed to know that, but she did not press any more and turned away.

"I'm just glad to have known you, even if the time was short," Rhystórë said quietly.

At that she looked up a little.

Even in the face of quietus, he managed to smile, tasting the salt of his tears upon his lips. "You have changed me, Khalentharia—you really have changed me."

She began to smile, and it turned into a shaky laugh. "That is good to know," she told him. "I am glad." For a moment she leaned against him, still shivering.

"Take my cloak." Rhystórë unfastened his brooch and draped the shawl around her.

She held it tightly. "Thank you."

Another moment passed.

"Nobody would have done that for me," she said.

"Done what?"

"Given me a cloak," Khalentharia told him. "I think my brother might have, when we were little, but he changed."

"You've never told me what happened when you both were children," Rhystórë noted.

"No," she agreed. "I have not. But it's not very interesting. Not a very good story to tell around a campfire."

"We have no campfire."

"This cloak _is_ a fire." Khalentharia smiled faintly again. "So bright and powerful my very bones have been warmed."

Rhystórë waited for her to speak.

"Well," she began. "My father had been the chieftain of my tribe when my brother and I were little. He always had the dream to unite all the tribes scattered throughout Endórë, to crown himself as the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. But chieftains never stay for very long. They'll be killed, sooner or later, for the title, though it scarcely means anything.

"My father was poisoned by another tribe when I was about seven or eight, and my brother was taken as a hostage. My uncle proclaimed himself the chieftain and undertook my father's dream. When he butchered the other tribe in revenge for my father's death, my brother returned to us unscathed. During the attack, he. . .saved this little girl from the wrath of my uncle. She was an Eldalië hostage, and it surprised me to find that years later, she was serving as a handmaid in the realm of Morinórë. Sometimes things skew in strange directions. I don't know why I remember her.

"After my uncle took over the other tribe, we hosted a feast. Yet the other tribe took the chance to poison my uncle and take over our tribe. Don't you see? It is such an endless wheel of fighting and death. And so my mother, my brother, and my younger siblings, who were mere infants, were exiled. We were forced to make a living out of the scraps of the wild, alone. My infant brothers died within the first few nights.

"But we made it through the long, cold years. My brother rose to become the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, I became one of the best warriors in the Wainriders, and my mother still dwells in the east."

Khalentharia's eyes looked into a dimension that none other could see. "My brother used to be kind, once. He used to tell me me that I was fierce like my father and stubborn like my mother. I embraced that. It made me who I was, when we went into exile. But the wild hardened him. He is not the same person. His dream of becoming the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders has shaken him, as it had shaped him in his childhood." She turned to Rhystórë. "It's strange how people can change, isn't it? Seems like a waste when they fall into darkness."

"Not all a waste," Rhystórë told her. "It won't be, as long as we have each other."

"We were bound to things once, weren't we? I to the Wainriders, you to the Númenóreans, and us both to Morinórë. Now, I think, we are bound to each other, and I suppose that is the best choice of them all for us to make."

 _But I'll have to leave soon, and you'll have to leave soon, and there is nothing that we can do._ Rhystórë spoke no words and massaged her shoulders. She was still shivering.

"Why did you help me?" he said at last. After they had brought him out of the dungeons of Lond Daer and to Morinórë, he was alone. Why did she have to help him?

"Because you were different than all the rest," Khalentharia told him. Her voice softened to a whisper, scarcely heard. "No one has ever been this kind to me my whole life."

For the rest of the night, she laid her head on his shoulder, her breath shallow, and he prayed the cold would not be so cruel as to bring death.

* * *

 _A/n: I apologize for the long wait. Finals sometimes have to be prioritized._


	74. Chapter III-XV

CHAPTER XV

* * *

— _The Sojourner—_

Weeks had passed and Lórinand had found no more tidings of Athaeben nor Nenya. Taeloth had not aided very much in the hunt. Someplace else they might have blamed her and accused her because she was doing nothing to help them, but in Lórinand they left her alone, to solace. She was grateful for that very much, and she was glad to be here.

It was hours after midnight that Taeloth wandered from somewhere she did not remember back to her chamber. When she passed by a Sinda elleth going in the opposite direction, she dipped her head politely.

"Mae govannen." She had gotten quite good at controlling the way she spoke now; she scarcely referred to herself as Norkáwen anymore, even in her head. She wanted to forget that very badly.

The elleth returned the nod. "Mae govannen."

They both walked on. It was so normal now to greet someone so casually, though it still felt strange. Taeloth supposed time would help, and she had so much of that.

Lórinand was such a protected haven that there was scarcely any need for doors; instead blue-grey curtains were drawn over opening, or none at all. She did not think she had seen not even one door during her stay in the city. Reaching her chamber, she drew the curtain aside for a brief moment, only enough to let herself in.

Taeloth halted and looked up at the elleth sitting blithely on her desk. Athaeben was staring off to the wall, garb weathered with travel, her eyes unseeing. Taeloth seemed to forget that sometimes. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if Athaeben had heard her enter, when the elleth turned her face to her. Though Athaeben had guessed Taeloth's location quite well, she was still around a foot off, so that she stared straight at the casket next to the curtain door. Taeloth wondered how she had not known that Athaeben had been blind all this time.

"According to your footsteps, you are Lady Taeloth." Athaeben sprang off her perch on the desk and sauntered toward her. Somehow she knew precisely where Taeloth was standing and halted before her. "Am I right?"

"Yes." Taeloth did not know what to say. "Did you not go away?"

"I did, for a time," Athaeben said. "But I came back."

"They said you took Nenya."

An amused smile came to Athaeben's lips. "Indeed."

Taeloth paused for a moment. "That was not an answer. You merely confirmed that they said you took Nenya, but you did not tell me if you had indeed taken it or not."

That seemed to amuse Athaeben all the more. "You are becoming smarter, I see." She turned and began to pace slowly around the room. Taeloth noticed that she brushed the ground before her a little before she stepped somewhere, and her fingertips were always reaching forward, trying to distinguish where things were.

"Vilya and Narya. . ." Athaeben murmured. "I would think you know where they are."

Taeloth shook her head, though she knew Athaeben would not see it. "You know I don't. When I was given Nenya, I knew nothing."

"Ah. That's a pity."

"Where is it?" Taeloth asked, not precisely in concern, but more in curiosity.

"Here. With me," Athaeben said. She turned to look directly to Taeloth's left eye. "I suppose you wonder why I have it?"

"Why?"

"Because I took it. But I took it because I need it. And why do I need it? Well, I suppose you'll have to fathom that out for yourself."

Again Taeloth narrowed her eyes at Athaeben, mostly because she knew she wouldn't see it. Otherwise she would not have dared to make such faces. "Where did you go?"

"Everywhere, and nowhere." Athaeben paused. "I expect you'll want it back."

"Yes."

"But is it yours to keep? You must learn, child, that in this world you cannot get anything unless you fight for it."

"I do not want to fight you."

"Smart child." Athaeben smiled vaguely. "I went to Eryn Galen. I expect. . .you know someone, or two, from there."

"Once," Taeloth told her, "maybe."

"Now that I think of it," Athaeben said quietly, "you are quite like me."

She said nothing.

Athaeben stepped forward and took her hand, placing Nenya in her palm then closing her fingers around it. "Lórinand is not safe. Will you take this to Lindon for me?"

Taeloth was taken aback. Out of all the scenarios she could have imagined, this would have been the least likely. "L-Lórinand? Not safe?"

Her hands were still clasped around Taeloth's. "No."

Trying to push Nenya back into Athaeben's hands, Taeloth shook her head furiously and stepped backwards. "I cannot do this. I have had enough of this."

Athaeben's gaze was misty as she looked into Taeloth's face, neither disappointment, longing, nor anger within it. Turning her face down to it, she opened her fingers to reveal Nenya glittering in her palm. The moment lingered there for only a short moment before she clasped the silver ring again and put it somewhere in her garb hidden, out of sight. She strode out of the chamber without another word.

A few moments after she had left, Taeloth broke her motionless stance and hurried after her, but when she reached the curtain, Athaeben had long gone.

* * *

— _Mairon—_

"You seem to enjoy your hostages more when you clamp chains on their wrists and ankles," Mairon observed as Pharazôn entered the cell, this time without the silver circlet glinting upon his brow. That was interesting—perhaps it meant that he was now willing to listen, that he was curious about what Mairon had to say. The thought amused Mairon.

"If you believe what you say, you would address me as 'Your Majesty'," Pharazôn said, stepping forward. "Do these accommodations suit you?"

"Ah, yes. Very much indeed. I apologize, Your Majesty." He must have surprised Pharazôn again, according to the king's expression, for there was no mockery nor contempt in his voice. Only genuine reverence. Kings liked that, very much.

"Very well then." Pharazôn had reached a point where he now stood directly before Mairon, so that the only way he could look at his prisoner was to glare steeply downward. Likewise, the only way Mairon could look at him was to look steeply upward. Kings, Mairon noted, also liked to show their power and their domination.

At length Pharazôn spoke. "What is Valinórë like?"

"Valinórë? That was a long time ago for me, and my memory grows dimmer by the moment. I spent the greater part of my younger days there, in bliss. I did not know very much, but I reveled in my work, scarcely stopping to rest. I remember distantly that I was once a Maia of Aulë, a crafter, a creator, a deviser." Those words amused him. Now instead of devising swords, he was devising plans. The Valar could blame that on Aulë, if they wanted.

He continued. "But I think that was because I found little belonging with the others. I was different than them. I knew. So I let myself be lost in my work. Yet now that I think of it, they—Aulë and the Valar—deceived me to do this. They wanted me to work—for them. Not for me." _Aulë._ The name felt cursed, wretched on his tongue. He was no longer feigning his emotion.

"I was alone for most of my days, until I found something else. Someone else. Melkor. I hated him too, at first, because he was a Vala, but I soon learned. Not all of them were the same. He brought me out of the darkness and into the light. Away from oblivion and ignorance and into something unprecedented. Then I found myself for the first time."

Mairon looked up at Pharazôn. "Do you understand, Your Majesty, what it is like to _hate?"_

Pharazôn gazed down at him and said nothing, though Mairon knew he understood.

"It is a bitter, lonely feeling, when you know that there is no one on your side, except for you. But you are the King of Númenor—how could you ever be alone? You have your councillors, your people, your _country._ "

"What do you mean to say?" Pharazôn demanded.

"I say what I mean, Your Majesty," Mairon told him. "Your case is different. You are not alone against the Valar. All the people of Númenor are with you—they will unite under your leadership."

"They are united under me now."

"Ah, yes, but not wholly. Many are unhappy. And the best thing a leader can do for their people is to make the unhappy happy, isn't it?"

"How do you suggest we do that?" Pharazôn said stiffly.

"Make them happy? It isn't all too difficult. Commoners don't want anything more than food and a roof over their heads, and the rich only want to be richer."

"Hm." Pharazôn stepped back and settled himself into the wooden chair upon the wall. "Sometimes I wonder why the Valar banned us from their land, why they gave the undying gift to the Eldalië yet not to us. This has become common talk amongst the people, don't you know? Númenor has become ever divided since these ideas spread. If you want to make the unhappy happy, then you'll have to begin with that, and that is a grudge which has long festered in the hearts of Men. The roots are deep, and profound. That, I expect, would provide more of a difficulty."

"Indeed," Mairon said. "But all you have to do is remind them that they are Númenóreans, and when they fight, they fight for Númenor."

"You amuse me, Maia. I can scarcely imagine how reminding them of their blood would rally them under me."

Mairon lifted his eyes. "If you cannot imagine, then give me a chance."

* * *

— _Atharys—_

He knew they were watching him, and he knew they would continue to watch him—but only if they knew where he was. And if he was gone, they could not inquire, as then it would prove their vigilance.

Atharys eased the windowpane slowly open, careful to not make any noise. Outside his chamber, it was windless, a melancholy night engirdled with the low coos of mourning doves. At first he thought himself to be mistaken with the calls, as these doves were mainly active during the day, yet an owl's calls would have been much lower. He supposed the caprice meant the beginning of a precarious night.

Glancing to all sides, Atharys found a grip upon the wall, testing a little with his feet before pressing down completely. At least he was able to somewhat suppress his reciprocating fear at the fleeting glance down to the staggering fall beneath him—his father had taught him how to fly as a little child by throwing him off a ledge. That first time he had failed terribly and slammed onto the ground, fracturing both his arms, a leg, and a few ribs, but that did not discourage his father. The game continued, on and on and on, for several months, before he was able to even glide without falling.

Atharys pushed the thought away and returned his focus to the climb; if he used his wings now, they would generate too much wind and noise. He had to get to the summit of Lúmë-mindon then ascend into the air as high as he could before heading to the bone forest. If the situation turned out unfortunate, then either Hestáryn or Tiríssë or both would find him before he reached the ungolócë, and if tonight was blessed, then, they would not notice a thing amiss until morning. It was very unlikely that the latter would come true, nonetheless.

In his musings, he had eased his mind from some of the climbing, and promptly, he reached the tower's summit. Though his arms burned and his breath came short, he was grateful for the preparation of the night's beginning. For a moment, he gazed at the terrain below as he regained his breath. He wondered what it would be like to fall from such a height—if the death would come quicker.

Now revitalized, Atharys crouched to the ground then shot into the sky, so swiftly and quietly that a moment later, it seemed as if no one had ever set foot there. When his breath began to come short again from the thinness of the air, he balanced his ascent and began to glide. Amid the wisps of cloud, he could see the bone forest, and he prayed the mist would conceal his presence as the descent began. He had gotten quite skilled in gliding directly downward without making the slightest of sounds. Silently, he slipped down from the sky and into the bone forest, landing in a crouch, with his right fist upon his right leg and his left knee and left palm upon the ashen dirt.

Atharys glanced up, scanning the area around him. Not even the ravens perched upon the bleached white trees; the only fëa near was himself.

He rose and continued forward to the ungolócë, where his father had first brought Hith's hröa back from Hithaeglir. As he approached the vine, he remembered how he had stared at the poison nectar in awe and astonishment, almost wanting to touch it out of curiosity. It was a sinister memory, as was the experience of coming before it again. He crouched before the black flower and studied its seemingly delicate texture. _How ironic._

Swinging his quiver off his shoulder, he slid the nine arrows out and placed them in the ashen dirt beside him. His fingers extended forward to the poison nectar, summoning a bulging drop forth. It wobbled dangerously in the air as it floated toward him. Carefully, he directed the drop into the quiver, easing it all the way to the bottom so that it would not splash.

Atharys let out a shaky sigh of relief, then turned to the flower again. _Three more to go._ Again he held out his fingers and let the ungolócë drift to the quiver. When it was done, he slipped the arrows back into the quiver, so that the points were tainted with the poison.

He stood and started forward to the southern part of the bone forest, where the surviving dragons dwelt. Most had been killed in the War of Wrath, but his father had been breeding more for his own wars. They had grown to be massive in the years, many larger than Glaurung but none larger than Ancalagon. That was what his father had told him. Ancalagon had been the mightiest dragon to live, but Eärendil had slaughtered him in the war. Atharys was taught to know hatred and anger, but he wasn't sure if he ever wholly felt it.

The Urulóki slept in a clearing, surrounded by bone trees, which were taller in this area than other places. It was likely why they had picked this place. Atharys faltered for a moment—they were living, breathing things. He remembered the time when he had only been a child, and he had grown very attached to one of the Urulóki. Every day, he would ride the baby Urulókë, perfect for his size, from the morning twilight to sunrise and from eventide to dusk. But his father wanted to teach him that he shouldn't love so much, because then he would lose so much. So he killed the baby Urulókë, with an arrow tipped with ungolócë.

That was how Atharys knew they could die. The Urulóki—they would only be used as tools of war now. He knew his father had loved them once, as his own children, but his feelings had numbed into stone. Atharys wondered if he and Hith had been turned into tools now, no longer his children. He wondered if they were only things to be used to his benefit. Hith might have always known him like that, but Atharys had known their father to be. . .to be a _father_ , once.

Atharys took three arrows into his hand and fitted them to the string. In the dimness of the night, he could see the ungolócë glistening upon the points. He would have to fire them all separately, and very quickly. The Urulóki had not noticed his presence and continued to soundly sleep. He drew a deep breath into his lungs and stretched his firing arm back further.

After he let the first arrow fly, the rest came swiftly and easily, then all that was left in the night was the howling _shrieks_ of dying Urulóki.


	75. Chapter III-XVI

CHAPTER XVI

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

In the candlelight, Hesinyë's face was ghastly, partly cast in darkness. I could only see the faint glint of his eyes when he turned to the side. My own was likewise, but unlike him, I never moved, save to blink.

Hesinyë, I had found, was the name of the Wainrider boy who had accused me of being my father, the boy who had tried to poison me in defiance. I now wondered if that had all been an act—wondered if those words had been his true feelings. Yet again I reminded myself of how the best lies are the half truths. Sometimes the lines blur and fuse, pervading me with uncertainty and confusion.

I studied the boy's face in the shadows; he could not have been more than seventeen. For this I pitied him—I pitied him to have seen so much so young, and I pitied him to feel so much hate so young.

My body had gone uncomfortably stiff from staying still for so long. I tried to subtly roll my shoulders to relax the tension, my forearms still bound behind my back to a post, yet to no avail. Something in my upper back cracked, and I immediately went still, afraid to ruin it any more. My arms were numb though my fingers had begun to tingle. I tried to move them a little, but I could not feel them very much.

The boy Hesinyë had noticed my discomfort, but he only glared at me and proceeded to do nothing. He was awkward at being a guard, however, as it seemed that he scarcely seemed to know what to do as he stoically stood there. My pain, though slight, bothered him, as he was supposed to not do anything to help as a guard. But furthermore, he would do nothing, not because he was a cruel person, but because of the genuine hatred for me that dwelt in his heart. He saw me as a wicked person, evil and corrupt like my father.

"I wonder. . ." I began; I wanted to know, to hear the boy speak for himself rather than Yrenân. "Do you still see me as my father?"

He seemed to debate answering or not. At least making a decision, he opened his mouth, and the words that came out were stark and full of anger. "You think by 'having mercy' on me that one time you would win my loyalty? Perhaps that was a ploy to gain the people's favor. It would have gained many, if the truth were not known. So yes, I see you as your father, _Your Highness_. You have tried to deceive me to fight for you once, and you would do it again. The only masks you paint upon your face are to bring advantages to yourself. You care of no one."

I spoke quietly. "I see."

My words seemed to anger him more. "I wonder. . ." Hesinyë murmured. ". . .what you would do to buy your freedom. Most I have known would be on their knees by now, beseeching for their lives. Yet you, Your Highness, you seem not to care whether you live or die. Or perhaps you deem yourself to important to die. You think I will not have the audacity to kill you. If that is so, I believe you are wrong. Take my words for certain. I am not one to lie."

"You can ransom my freedom for provisions." My words sounded flat and expressionless, as if I scarcely cared at all for my life.

"Precisely. You speak my mind," Hesinyë said. "But what will provisions do for the Wainriders? Tell me that. Your father has taken our freedom from us, our lands. He has coerced us to fight his wars, let our people die under his banners. All we want now is what we had before. Do you think you can give that to us? It is the least you can do, after all of this."

I let the silence linger for a moment. "I do not know."

Hesinyë let out a bark of laughter. "See? You can do nothing. You have already ruined us too much."

Again I paused for the weight. "You still depend on Morinórë."

"Not before, but now, yes," he said, dour.

"If you ransom my freedom to Morinórë, you will have provisions. When I am back inside the court, I will fight for the Wainriders. I will make certain that your lands are returned to you, and your life is returned to how it was before."

"And why would you do that?"

My voice grew soft. "I have already told you."

"Perhaps so, but I am not wrong to doubt." Hesinyë turned away from me, his eyes glimmering a little. "I know who you truly are."

His words were so laced with genuine distaste that it saddened me. In my mind, I whispered my Quenya name to myself, not having done so in a long time. _Am I still that little girl that Findekáno rescued from the ruins of the battle? Am I still Híthriel of House Finwë, though I had never truly considered myself as part of their family?_ I wanted to be. I wanted to live in the past, and to forget about what I had to do. Closing my eyes, I tried to remember what their faces looked like, but it had been so long.

I hadn't realized tears had fallen from my eyes and stained my face until I saw Hesinyë looking at me, a little shocked and surprised. With my hands bound, I couldn't wipe them away; I could only let them dry.

"I see that. . .you have the potential to be a good person," I told the boy, my bottom lip trembling as I attempted to stifle my sudden emotion. "No matter what happens, remember who you are. You have to—you have to remember _who you are_."

* * *

— _Mairon—_

Time transpired rather slowly within the bare walls of his confinement. Though things had changed rather quickly, in his heart Mairon was still terribly impatient. He could not remember a time he was not able to control himself like this, yet here he was, nearly at the pinnacle, fighting to breathe steadily and calm his mind like a naïve child.

Ar-Pharazôn had listened to him speak many times during the fortnight he had been here. Every time the Númenórean king returned to his cell Mairon felt a spark of energy in his blood, urging him to move faster onward. Yet he knew—if he did not control this energy, it could lead to his own demise. Thus he must act carefully; every word, every movement, every thought must be planned. Mistakes were not acceptable.

Yet Mairon did not wish to remember one thing—the cost of seducing Ar-Pharazôn to his will. It required him to be submissive, to pamper the king and call him _Your Majesty_ , and to do as he was bid. Perhaps everything had to reverse sometimes. But that was worth it, he told himself. Everything would turn out all right in the end, and one rising dawn, Melkor would arise from the Void and return to him.

Tonight's guards placed him in no favor. His chains bound him tighter than usual, leaving him uncomfortably half-standing, half-sitting. He could neither straighten his back nor his legs; it seemed his muscles would never stop to ache from holding himself up like this. His arms were bound in an _X_ across his chest, pressing forcefully against his neck so he always felt like he was about to strangle himself. The pain distracted him from his thoughts, and that irritated him.

"Uncomfortable?"

Mairon kept still, his head cast to the ground, as if he had not noticed the guards at all. Wrists and ankles chafed from the pressure, he said nothing, nor did anything in response. No fear, no anger, no arrogance.

"You hear me?" the guard demanded, seizing him by the chin and forcing him to look directly into his eyes.

 _I could break you, if I wanted to._ Nonetheless, Mairon knew he had to do nothing if he wanted to gain more of Pharazôn's favor. He drew in a breath and steadied himself again.

"How much does it take for a Maia to die?" the guard mused, letting his knife skim over Mairon's arm, drawing a thin line of blood. "Would you die too quickly if we used you for target practice?"

Like a panther preparing to pounce, Mairon's muscles tensed, but not for the same outcome. He found his breath short and quick, not frightened but enraged, as the knife travelled across his body. _No. I cannot—I cannot—I cannot—_ He found himself wishing the War of Wrath had never happened. If Melkor were still here, this would have never happened. The Valar had to—they had to take everything he ever cherished and loved from him, they had to break him like this, in this way, they had to, they had to, they had to.

Mairon closed his eyes, trying to imagine a happier time as he turned his face to the side, away from the guard, but he was allowed nothing of the such.

The guard, unlooked-for, released the knife from where it had been at his throat, and lifting it again, stabbed it in one stroke into his thigh. His voice was low and guttral. "You will _look at me._ "

He drew in a sharp, gasping breath, trying to relieve the pain. The guard wrenched the knife out, blood splattering upon the ground, and Mairon wondered why guards were like this. Their only job was to guard, not to harm their prisoners.

Slowly, Mairon turned to look at the guard. _They had to do this to him, they had to, they had to._

He remembered Eönwë—how he had pleaded him to return to Valinórë with him, saying that the Valar would pardon him. At the time, Mairon had been hopeful, but only for a mere moment. When he remembered their harshness, their cruelty, all dreams faded and he had to harden himself. They would never let him live, not how he wanted to. He would be a prisoner, under watch by them all, and he would be ridiculed, scorned.

It went on, and on, and on, until he couldn't bear it anymore and, seizing the guard with his chains, smashed his head against the wall. His skull was crushed in, the top part of it coming off, and red and white stuff came out of his head. Mairon could see what was inside of his head.

The others came pouring in at the screaming, even when the screaming became wheezing gasps, then silence. Mairon was punished, severely, but killing that guard made him feel _good._

Nonetheless, the experience made him _think._ He thought about his daughter—ah, Híthriel, who had suffered torment as such so much and for so long that for a moment he even venerated her ability to hold herself together. She would likely be laughing at him now, if she knew. _Ironic._ Upon remembering her first day in the mines, he wanted to laugh.

Again, another fortnight passed, though in truth, he scarcely kept track of time. If he had to guess, it would have been a fortnight. And then at last, the next milestone came to pass.

A lord from the court of Númenor was walking down the corridor to his cell. He spoke a few quick words with the guards, and they dipped their heads and nodded at each other politely. _A show of civility for the nobles._ Then the guards unlatched his cell door, and the Númenórean lord strode before him.

Mairon made a show of not noticing him, being half-conscious and hanging in his chains. He felt the the Númenórean lord grimacing at his wounds and the guard's blood stain on the wall, yet that did not amuse him as much as it usually would have. He was wearied, and he desired an end. The Númenórean cleared his throat, but Mairon still remained unmoving.

"Lord Sauron," he said. "His Majesty wishes to see you. In his solar."

They unbound him and tended to his wounds, though he still limped from the wound in the thigh the guard had given him. The Númenórean lord led him through and up stairs and corridors feebly lit by flickering torches, shadows devising illusions upon the grey stone walls. At last, they reached Ar-Pharazôn's chambers, and some steps later, his vision a blur, Mairon came before the King of Númenor.

Pharazôn nodded his head. "Lord Sauron."

Mairon could not help but smile, though however weak.

"I prefer to go by Tar-Mairon."

* * *

— _Rhystórë—_

Khalentharia was asleep when the guards came back to order Rhystórë out, so still that he was afraid she had already passed in her sleep. But as he rose silently, careful not to wake her, he could see the subtle rise and fall of her chest. _Not yet. Not today._

The guard happened to be kind enough to shut the door quietly behind Rhystórë, leaving Khalentharia in peace. Rhystórë scarcely noticed that at the time, however; he merely walked past the guard and to the fortress where Belyswë still lingered. He wondered why Belyswë had let him come to her, though he knew it was likely a ruse. Perhaps he had created his own demise with the fleeting sentiment based purely on intuition.

"Lord Belyswë does not wish to be disturbed," the handmaid at his brother's chamber door told him, bowing her head.

"I need to see him," Rhystórë said, his breath short from hastening there. "I don't care about what he wishes."

The girl tried to block the doorway. "Sir, please—"

Rhystórë shouldered past her and shoved the door open, striding in before she could say any more. He halted, however, as he found Belyswë bent over a scarcely clothed woman, quite occupied. Yet a mere moment after Rhystórë had entered, dismayed and taken with fear, Belyswë spoke, though he did not turn.

"I expect you had a warm night," Belyswë remarked. "Decided to get her with child right before her death?"

Rhystórë collapsed to his knees as his intuition took him. "Please, brother, please—I am _begging_ you. Spare her life. Please. I will do anything for you."

Belyswë paused, aggressively throwing a blanket at the courtesan. "Get out of here," he said to her. Smiling coyly, she rose, wrapped the blanket around herself, and ran fleet-footed out of the chamber. With a sudden pang, Rhystórë realized the girl had been Nythiel, his handmaid when he was still the Númenórean lieutenant.

His brother turned to him, his voice a drawl. "What will you do?"

"Anything. _Anything._ " Rhystórë was still bowed on the ground, his head nearly touching the floor.

"Hm. We'll see about that." Belyswë began to saunter aimlessly around the room. Stopping at his table, he poured himself a glass of wine. "But you do know, little brother, that I cannot simply pardon the Easterling. My people find fault in her."

"For being an Easterling. They hate her—they think she is lower than them—because she is an Easterling. No, I do not think they find fault in her. I think you should be finding fault in _them._ "

Belyswë chuckled. "You have always been so naïve, little brother. This is the very way they _think_. Do you really believe you—or I—can change that within them? No, I think not. How will you settle the populations of people who come to protest when they hear I have liberated an Easterling without trial, without cause?"

"There _is_ cause. The cause is a catalyst for change. Change in the way people think."

"Hm," Belyswë said.

Rhystórë had risen, and now he stepped forward to Belyswë, pointing an accusatory finger at his face. " _You_ think like that."

"Indeed. And you do too. It is only logic, little brother." He sighed. "You know so little. How could you have forgotten who you are? You are a Númenórean. The blood of Númenor runs through your veins. Be loyal to that blood. It is so pure, so precious. But what have you become? You have thrown that privilege away and become half an Easterling yourself."

There was a moment of silence.

Rhystórë turned his face, slowly, to his brother's. "Yes, for once, you are right. I am part Easterling now. I have dwelt with them, shared their mead and meat, learned their ways, been a part of them. Now they are a part of _me._ It is not me who is the fool. It is you. You have never opened your eyes nor your ears to see and listen and learn. I used to be like that, because you taught me to be like that. Yet they taught me to be different."

Belyswë laughed a laugh the way people do, slowly and meticulously, when they want to remind the other that the supremacy and the power is in their hands. "You amuse me, little brother. How about this? You swear yourself to me, and I will allow the Easterling girl a trial."

Rhystórë lifted his eyes hopefully then lowered them again. For a moment, nothing moved. Then—

"Give me your dagger," Rhystórë said.

Satisfied, Belyswë pressed his dagger into Rhystórë's open palm. "Do it well, little brother."

The hilt was smooth in the grasp of his right hand as he held it up, observing the gleam of the candlelight within the dagger's mirror. Lifting his left hand, he curled his fingers around the blade then crushed them into a fist, drawing blood. He inhaled sharply as the pain knifed through and ebbed.

He bowed his head. "I, Rhystórë, son of Daethad, swear my allegiance to the Lord of Lond Daer, Belyswë, son of Daethad."

"To whatever end," Belyswë said.

"To whatever end."

* * *

 _A/n: Please let me know what you think!_


	76. Chapter III-XVII

CHAPTER XVII

* * *

— _Atharys—_

When he was called to the throne room once more, it was neither Tiríssë nor Hestáryn who was waiting for him. As it happens, it was no one—at first.

From his chambers, the guards escorted him through the corridors and ushered him into the throne room, alone. Atharys entered without hesitation, walking along the perimeter of the room and feeling as if he would be too vulnerable in the open. The throne was bare, diaphanous curtains drawn over the high windows, and the hall empty and blank, save himself, or so it seemed if he only used his eyes. He paused mid-step, not turning his face, feeling the strands of energy around him. Near was a fëa; he could feel it.

A figure who he had overlooked, thinking her to be a statue, moved and stepped into the open, and the voice was curt and pulling back a fit of rage.

"Greetings, Your Highness."

He did not recognize her, and according to her scent, she had been to many places far and wide, though some of Morinórë was mingled within it. She had been here before, but had arrived only recently.

The elleth was silver-eyed and dark-haired, though it seemed the tone of her hair had once been a different color. Yet it seemed, when he stared into her eyes to study her defiance, they did not truly see. She looked past him, into something else beyond, unintimidated, though no one seemed to be intimidated of him nowadays. Though her eyes seemed unfocused, they held a certain strength; the force of survivor. He understood that look.

Other than that, he observed her stance. It was difficult to describe, but it seemed faux, though if he only looked over it once it would have seemed phlegmatic. She wore a weathered grey cloak, but beneath she wore black garb, the texture much like the scales of Urulóki, which reminded him what he had done.

"You seem to be perceptive," the elleth said after a mere moment. Still beneath, he could sense that trembling anger. "As am I. Do you know who I am?"

"I have not seen you before, but as you said, I seem to be perceptive. I can feel who you are without knowing you."

She laughed humorlessly. "Cleverly said. Much like your father. He calls you Aþārithīr, does he not?"

"Who told you?"

"No one," she said. "Your father is so kind to you. Why did you betray him?"

Atharys said nothing. He did not feel like giving explanations to ludicrous people who did not understand things. It would have been courteous to do so, but he was tired from the night. The blood of the Urulóki still stained his fingers.

"Unfortunately it seems you have failed. Two of them escaped. I saw them flying away into the north as I was coming here."

"Where do you come from?" Atharys inquired.

"Yesterday? Lothlórien. The time before? Eryn Lasgalen. In the beginning? Doriath, though my life was lived chiefly in the fortress of your father, Angamando. But you are too young to remember. I would not blame you for it."

Atharys was mildly interested in uncovering the elleth's history. "Why would you consider blaming me?"

"I would consider blaming anyone," she said.

Atharys watched her closely as he spoke. "What is your name?"

Her eyes glittered. "Athaeben."

He had the temperament to greet her, dipping his head genteelly. "Well met, Lady Athaeben. It seems the only one who has the authority to send me to places is Lord Tiríssë at the moment. Did he send you?"

"No. I sent him. As I did Hestáryn." Athaeben seemed to be unsatisfied when his expression did not look even mildly frightened. "I knew your father, once. He controlled me, once. What I did, how I did things, why I did them. Now I am here to control him."

"He is not here."

"That I know. That, too, is very convenient."

"You fear him," Atharys said.

She whipped her head to him, angry. "No. Deeming something convenient is not the same thing as fear."

"Or perhaps it is, sometimes."

Her eyes flashed so fiercely that for a moment, it seemed she could see. "Getting rid of you would furthermore enhance the convenience." She held up a fist fervently. "Tiríssë!"

The Maia of vigilance slipped into the hall, along with Lord Hestáryn and a dozen guards. Whilst the guards lined up beside them, six on her left and six on her right, Lord Tiríssë came next to her, bowing.

"Yes, my lady?"

"I am afraid that has now become _Your Grace._ "

Lord Tiríssë inclined his head deeper. "Your Grace."

Athaeben jerked her head at Atharys. "Execute the traitor."

Tiríssë paused, looking confused for a moment. "Y-Your Grace?"

"You heard my orders. Now carry them out."

The Maia of vigilance paused for another uncertain moment before unsheathing his dagger and stepping toward Atharys.

"Your Grace," Hestáryn intervened, his voice alarmed. "I believe it would be useful for you to keep him alive, as the Prince of Morinórë—"

"No. Carry on, Lord Tiríssë."

 _Might as well make it clean. I have done my part. This is enough._ He knew when Mairon returned, he would easily overpower her. Yet without his Urulóki, he would have trouble winning the war against the Eldalië. Hith would take care of the rest. His mad reign would end, someday.

Atharys let Tiríssë approach him and step behind him, feeling the sharp coldness of the dagger upon his throat. The Maia's grip on him was very strong; if he tried to struggle now he could be cutting his own throat upon the dagger. Yet Tiríssë wavered, waiting for Athaeben's command.

She did so such thing, and only waited.

Drawing a deep breath in, Atharys closed his eyes. _It is all right,_ he told himself. _Soon it will be all right. Very soon._ Pressure was forced upon his neck, then—

"Stop."

Athaeben had held her fist up, her breathing difficult and laboured.

"Release him."

Tiríssë stepped back, and Atharys released a breath he did not know he had been holding.

"You were right, Lord Hestáryn. The Prince of Morinórë could be very useful to us." She turned to Atharys. "From now on, you will be my informer. You will go to Lindon, alone, and if you tell the truth when you return, then you will be pardoned for your crimes."

Atharys found that it was very ironic, for his 'crimes' may have actually aided her, for he was against Mairon and so was she. He did nothing but give her a glowering look, though he knew she would not see it.

Athaeben turned away. "Leave me."

There were incongruous mutters of ' _yes, Your Grace'_ and ' _as Your Grace bids'_ as her lords and guards dispersed. Atharys would have found it almost amusing how the situation was all so precarious, dangling upon the edge of a precipice, if he had not been so taken aback at how Morinórë had changed so quickly. In the matter of moments, the rule of the empire had been usurped by an elleth unknown to him, though the whole scheme had been plotted long before.

"Come, Your Highness," Tiríssë said, jerking his chin at Atharys. "Exile is now where your path goes."

* * *

— _Mairon—_

"Ever since I have made you my advisor, my people have been in opposition. Does that not make your words haltingly ironic?" In the candlelight, Pharazôn could very nigh look menacing, with his face half cast in shadow, the crown scintillating on his head. Mairon had never seen him taken it off save the time when he went to bed. Even then, he would set the golden thing next to his bedpost and gaze at it in the waning candlelight until he fell into haunted slumber.

"You have scarcely yet heeded my counsel," Mairon said as he stepped down the last of the stairs. He lingered on the last one so that he was half a foot above Pharazôn, just to show their balance of power. It was time for the Númenórean king to do as he bid. "If only you used your mind to listen, and not only your ears."

Pharazôn bristled at that, turning on him. "I hear every word every man says, but I will only listen to the words of an _intelligent_ one."

"Perhaps then your perception errs."

"No," Pharazôn said dangerously, his voice low and guttral. "No, I do not err."

"Every leader does. If you do not, then I cannot be so sure you are a true leader, Your Majesty. I beg your pardon."

" _Speak!"_ The words were sharp and infuriated, nearly a screech. "Speak your mind, then, before I go mad with your disparagement."

Mairon was content with this response; this Númenórean king truly was quite amusing. "May I direct you to notice that the ones who are against you are mostly the older population?"

Pharazôn's back was turned to him so he could not see his expression, but even without it Mairon was complacent with how he had crafted this situation.

"What will that do?" Pharazôn demanded at last.

"Do you not see?" Mairon strode forward as if to depict elation. "If we influence the younger population, then suddenly we have the support of much of Númenor. The young ones much more powerful and influential in your society than the old ones, for they are the ones that will bring the future. Those are the people you must target, Your Majesty. Fill them with the pride of Númenor as the old grow weak."

Pharazôn was silent for a long moment, musing on this idea. "What, specifically, do you suggest?"

A smile unbeknownst to him crept onto his lips, quietly. "All you need is parchment and some words to say, Your Majesty."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

In the dark Tengwar script upon the wall where hundreds now gathered—

 _If your master treats you unjustly, the Krassatud await you, our doors wide open and welcoming._

The streets of the market were crammed with people clamouring about, trying to get near enough to read the messages posted upon the stone walls. Women, men, and children alike swarmed there, pushing and yelling at each other as they tried to grasp sight of it. Because of her Eldalië heritage, Narbeleth didn't have to get very close to understand what it said unlike the others, though she still stared at it for a few moments, confused, before someone knocked her down.

The basketful of herbs went spilling all over the streets, being quickly trampled by the crowd. Filthy, unwashed children dived immediately for them, shoving even the bitterest ones in their mouths. Narbeleth panicked, knowing she scarcely had enough money from Lord Agatharan to buy any more as she struggled to get up as the people still surged around her. Eventually she found her footing and snatched the remaining herbs, which were not very many. She had to shout and be aggressive, or at least look it, towards the destitute children before she could get them back.

Narbeleth stood and stared again at the poster on the wall, wondering what it meant. Wearily, she turned away and headed back to the old herb man's stand, shoving her way through the throng of people. She was not used to being so uncouth; she was raised in a society that valued civility. Though she had grown up in Harlindon, a city of survivors as all were at the end of the First Age, people still remembered, if not distantly, their former cultures and practices away from the ravages of war. If some had become savages, then others lingered in melancholy memory.

Yet when she arrived at the herb man's stand, he was not there. Instead she found youngsters—children her age—shouting in triumph and joy and dancing around, their fists in the air. At first, they were largely in disarray, but as it went on, the procession became more militaristic. Narbeleth sidled around them, cradling her basket and seeming a little frightened, though she was intrigued by this new change.

" _For the blood of Númenor! For the blood of Númenor! For the blood of Númenor!"_

The chant nearly sounded like an incantation, as if the mere sound of the words would bring power into their veins. Narbeleth wondered if that could be true. In her head, she thought she could hear the deep tattoo of bass drums _boom_ ing in the distance, and that unnerved her. She still scarcely knew what was going on nor the meaning behind the poster. She saw faces zooming by, some completely unfamiliar but others she knew, but changed faces.

In the confusion, she heard her name being called and whipped around, losing some of her herbs to the ground again. Gyldin, the boy she had saved from the fall, was running to her, his face wild and jubilant.

"We're _free!"_ he was yelling. " _We're free!"_

"Free from what?" Narbeleth demanded.

"From pain," he told her. Amidst all the noise, it was difficult to hear. "From slavery. From our masters. Tar-Mairon has declared it in the name of His Grace Ar-Pharazôn." He shook her shoulders, vehemently, in his exhilaration, and the rest of the herbs along with the basket fell to the ground.

Narbeleth made no move to save them, her eyes wide with interest and a need to know. "Free?"

"Tar-Mairon deemed it unjust for slavery to continue to exist in Númenor. He advised Ar-Pharazôn to make Númenor a better place for us all, starting with this. Narbeleth, don't you understand? We're free now—we're _free!"_

"What happened to the old herb man?"

"He didn't support Tar-Mairon's policies so the others carted him off somewhere."

"Who?" Narbeleth demanded.

"The other ones in my cabin—your old one."

She remembered that the youngest ones there had been seven and the oldest thirteen. "What did they do?"

Gyldin grew uncomfortable. "I didn't. . .I didn't stay to see. They went away." Quickly he diverted her attention, wanting to focus on other things. "But now, we're free, and we can fight for who we wish. The Krassatud—they will accept us with welcoming arms and give us food, shelter, and duties to perform. Duties for the blood of Númenor."

Narbeleth thought he might have forgotten she was not Númenórean, and thus did not feel that same pride for the country. "I would want to fight for myself." _My own rights, my own freedom._

She learned later that the old herb man had been mobbed and killed after being dismembered, head last. It was told that they passed his dismembered parts around the crowd, even the smallest children delicately picking them up in their plump little hands, staring at them and admiring them. Similar things had happened to others who simply rejected the policies of the new regime, somehow simultaneously spreading patriotism and terror.

The Krassatud essentially became the initiators of this terror, being the ones ordered by the officials to mob certain people and houses who disobeyed. Many acted on their own, however, and hunted victims down, sometimes wronged. Out of 'loyalty to Númenor', some killed their own relatives. Narbeleth distinctly remembered the story of one of the other servants from her master's house. The girl had been seventeen, sold to Lord Agatharan at the age of ten. Her mother had not wanted to do it, but she had no choice, not being able to feed all seven of her children. Her father, meanwhile, was glad to be rid of another mouth to feed. In merely seven years, the girl had become unrecognizable to her parents—full of anger, full of pain, full of hatred. She hated them with all her heart. _Hated_ them. The night the Krassatud formed, she led a band of 'soldiers' to their house and beat them then slit their throats, killing herself soon after.

These so-called 'soldiers' were schoolchildren from age twelve to those in their early twenties. They had never learned to fight, been trained, nor learned true allegiance. Most let themselves be consumed in their own downfall—living to survive, consuming to indulge, fighting to fight. There were scarcely any reasons behind anything.

Gyldin and her other companions from the plantations joined the Krassatud hours after it was formed. Narbeleth, for need of food and shelter, also joined. That night she could scarcely sleep, thinking about all these new opportunities suddenly blooming before her. There was so much she could do free.

* * *

 _A/n: Please let me know what you think! Any comments, theories, questions are greatly appreciated! :)_

 _My finals are finally over, so now updates will be back to normal. Something like every other day._


	77. Chapter III-XVIII

CHAPTER XVIII

* * *

— _Mairon—_

The Temple was laced with gold, an extravaganza of its own blanketed in golden statues, golden ornaments, golden jewels, and a golden altar. Standing five hundred feet tall, its walls were fifty feet thick at the base, and smoke from offerings still ran out from the louver of the silver dome at its summit. Guarding its entrance at the pillars were two great dragons of gold, their tongues lolling out as they held themselves in an eternal stance ready for war. They bathed themselves in the ashes at their feet, looking the very embodiment of power. Yet in all their mightiness, they were still nothing compared to the true, living Urulóki.

As he strode into the Temple, Mairon wished his Urulóki were here beside him. They made him feel the strength rushing through his hands, tingling in his blood. Without them here, he felt less secure, less sure of himself. There was nothing he could do of it, however, and he told himself to forget any thought of it.

He walked slowly into the main chamber, stirring the ashes from the offerings at his feet. On both sides of the hall, people bowed their heads so low their brows met the black marble floor. They did not move at all as he entered, all being silent save for the drums announcing his entrance— _doom, doom._ In the very foremost part of the hall, a great black seat stood, all around it shrouded in gold. Between the seat and the worshippers was the altar in the center of it all.

Mairon sat himself into that seat and waited for them to rise. In murmured unison, they did, yet they kept their heads bowed. Upon a great wooden plank, the White Tree was carried into the hall. Nimloth, they had called it, the White Tree that had grown in the King's Court of Armenelos. It had been a gift from the Eldalië as a symbol of friendship and alliance, and when the sun set, it would blossom. Yet now, they must sever that league—they must sever any connections between themselves and the wronged.

He watched Pharazôn watch the Tree be set in the center of the pool of ash. The lesser priests poured oil all over it, not leaving one spot dry. Then at last when they were finished, they stepped back, and all was silent.

Mairon rose, his arms uplifted. He stepped slowly towards the Tree, measuring each step. There was only a quiet exchange of gazes between him and Pharazôn before Mairon lifted his hand, and fire bloomed from his fingers like a rose, lapping their orange tongues upon its branches. Pharazôn stood before the fire, so close for a moment Mairon thought the flames were licking his face. He almost wished it would, so he would not be the only one so scarred.

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

"Can I trust you?" Yrenân mused, turning his knife over and over in his hands as he paced slowly around the tent. Hesinyë stood silent and motionless to the side, the very embodiment of a faithful guard, and I was still bound to the post, the iron collar around my neck so tight I could scarcely breathe.

I decided not to respond to Yrenân's musings; people like him preferred to hear themselves talk instead of truly having a conversation with someone. Rather I looked him straight in the eye, telling him my answer there. _I never supported him in my heart, you know. My father. I never did._ Already I had told him those words, but he had not believed them and wanted me to prove them by killing Insangar. Now, I hoped, even a mere look could convince him that this, truly, was what I wanted.

"In truth, I did not think you would kill him," Yrenân said. "Yet it turns you have more devotion than it seems. Or simply more hatred."

"I have a balance between both."

"Ah, good, good. We will need that." Yrenân ran his finger upon the hilt of his knife. "As I need your loyalty."

"I have given it to you," I said.

"As I have said, that alone proves nothing. Only devotion or hatred."

"You know well I wish for the downfall of my father's rule in Morinórë. Why do you doubt that?"

Yrenân looked me up and down for a long moment. "Take that collar off her neck. She looks ridiculous."

Hesinyë bowed and marched forward, releasing the iron collar. I breathed in a gasp of air, and he let it dangle upon the post, clacking against each other, then made to step back to his position.

"If you need my loyalty, then I need yours," I said, holding out my wrists.

The boy Hesinyë glanced at Yrenân, looking as if he would rather obey me than him.

Yrenân laughed, a long chuckle of blatant amusement. "Very well, Your Highness. Go on. Set her free."

I held my gaze with Yrenân as Hesinyë unshackled my wrists and ankles, not daring to break it. Outside the tent, first light was nigh approaching, spilling red into the sky.

"We'll be on the move soon. You'll need to be on your feet." Yrenân stepped forward as I managed, shakily, to stand, one hand on the post. I could scarcely feel my arms and legs; all I felt was nausea even as I breathed in again, trying to steady myself.

"Does it still hurt?" he said softly, pouting.

"I can manage." I shoved myself off the wooden post and staggered outside.

Yrenân watched me struggle in amusement. "Hesinyë will bring you food before we leave."

All I wanted was to be left alone. The next words that came out of my mouth were forced. "Thank you, Chieftain."

At least Yrenân was smart enough to know that devotion and hatred did not mean loyalty.

* * *

— _Rhystórë—_

The city had flocked together for the trial. Many were eager to see the 'Dunlending' damned at last, some to see the spectacle, and others came because those they knew were going and they had nothing better to do. People of all ages and genders came—men, women, children, and the elderly. In an extravaganza like this, no one could be excluded.

As Khalentharia stood before the shouting crowd, her wrists chained together, Belyswë sat to the side on a chair so extravagant it seemed nearly a golden throne. Rhystórë himself was allowed to watch, but he had guards beside him to check his every movement. He watched the throng of people as they pooled in, and he watched the guards push them back with their spears, holding his breath at each motion. Amidst the tension he and Khalentharia met each other's eyes, and the gaze was only broken when Belyswë stood to announce the beginning.

The trial lasted all day. Witness after witness came forth, telling of how the Dunlendings had ravaged their homes and their lands, of how they should be punished. They described the Dunlendings as savages, a cruel and brutal people who cared nothing for the lives of human beings. Rhystórë remembered the words the guard had said the day they came to the city. _Lond Daer was burned to the ground. Twice. By Dunlendings. I need no more reason to fuck all the squint-eyed whores I can find—_

Yet they found no way to prove that Khalentharia was, in fact, a Dunlending. Her appearance was enough for them, as they were not able to tell the difference between the different groups of people. To them, the only races were Númenórean and everyone else. It didn't seem that the life of one woman mattered severely to them. In fact, they scarcely touched the subject at all of proving if she was a Dunlending or not, ironically.

Multiple times Rhystórë tried to meet her gaze, but she would not look at him. She would not look anywhere but the ground, it seemed, and whenever someone screamed curses at her or threw shit at her, she did nothing. She had stopped caring. The worst witnesses testified calmly, with such twisted and _wrong_ logic that it nearly made Rhystórë doubt himself and want to believe them for a moment. It made him hate who he was. Why did he have to be Númenórean, one of these people?

By the time eventide had fallen, Rhystórë found himself feeling helpless, shaken, and angry. He could do nothing against this injustice. If he stood, he would be dragged down. If he spoke, he would be killed. If anyone spoke, they would be killed. _How could such a little voice change all these hearts?_ After all, Belyswë had told him— _You have always been so naïve, little brother. This is the very way they think. Do you really believe you—or I—can change that within them? No, I think not._ It was in their blood.

Torches were lit as darkness began to envelop the land, begetting a ghastly scene. People began to grow more audacious, more wild. Then there were no more witnesses to come forward, and they retreated to shouting baleful chants, punching their fists into the air. It seemed they would never quiet to let the accused speak.

At last Belyswë stood, a signal for the guards to push the throng back. He waited there, untroubled, as shouts of _Silence!_ vibrated through the air, penetrating through the clamour. The gleaming torchlight was reflected in his eyes, as if another soul dwelt there.

Rhystórë stole another sharp glance to the guards' struggle to keep the tumult down. Yet there were too many commoners and too little guards. Above unkempt heads, hands reached out in the darkness. A woman in the crowd was screaming, "Bitch! _Bitch!"_ as she forced herself into the front, arms flailing. Rhystórë thought she might have had a story of her own; maybe she was a widow and she had lost her husband to the Dunlendings, or maybe her son had been killed by them. Everyone had their own stories, though nobody listened to them. Children stood atop roofs, some throwing shit. One hit Khalentharia in the shoulder and slid off her arm, but she made no reaction. Glassy eyes and an impassive mind—perhaps that was her fate.

The woman who had been screaming broke the guards' line and surged forward. One of the guards, panicking, threw his spear before himself. The woman ran straight into the point, running herself through. Her eyes went wide with shock as she realized what had happened, and she looked down at the spear shaft protruding out of her abdomen, then back up at the guard, blood seeping from her mouth.

As she fell, the rest of the commoners swelled into a irrepressible riot. They erupted past the lines, trampling over some of the guards, and rose as a blazing fire. Some of the children on the roofs leaped down onto the guards' shoulders and stabbed their heads with blunt kitchen knives.

Rhystórë, realizing that his guards had fled in terror, had thrust his way into the crowd, crying out for Khalentharia. Seizing a dagger from a dead guard, he plowed through to Khalentharia and began desperately sawing through the ropes tying her to the post. He had no time to release the chains on her wrists; some of them had already gotten to her, yet even bound, she managed to kick a screaming man away from him. At last, he cut through the last strand of rope. Khalentharia was tainted with blood from the mob, from the blunt knives of the starved children, from the fingernails and teeth of their wrath. Still they surged on, all trying to slaughter the woman they deemed to be a Dunlending.

In the darkness set alight only by torches, Rhystórë could scarcely see any way out. Somehow he had gotten a fallen sword in his hand, cutting people down by the dozens. It was only when he glanced around for any sign of Belyswë that he realized the guards had been called away, leaving them to die in the mob.

"Please, Rhystórë—"

But Khalentharia did not say what. He scarcely saw the face of a woman before he slashed her face in two, then moved on to the next, and the next. And in the quiet of his mind, he remembered that Khalentharia always liked to tease him by calling him a Númenórean. _Ah, silly Númenórean,_ she would say. _Know how to light a fire, Númenórean?_ Her and her uninhibited ways, so free, such beautiful times. He was so stupid once, so ignorant. They used to dream so much together. . .they would live for days in dreams. He wished dreams would become real. She had told him, once, of how they could live those dreams, if they truly wanted to. But he said they needed to stay. If only they had gone away. . .

"Please—"

She was wrenched backwards by someone, choking. " _Khalentharia!"_ he screamed. He threw himself forward, only to be met by a knife in his abdomen. The ground came up to punch his face as something else hit him in the back, and he coughed, spitting blood and remembrances on the dirt. Nonetheless, he rose again and surged forward, twisting the sword before him. " _Khalentharia!"_ Then somehow he was on the ground again, his mouth full of dirt and blood, and his head throbbed. He gasped and choked as someone trampled on top of him, crushing his lungs. He lifted his head weakly, trying to see any trace of her. The mob had moved away from him and were now all centered in one specific spot, and blood was on the ground, dark and glistening. "Khalentharia. . ." _If only they had gone away. . ._

If only they had gone away.


	78. Chapter III-XIX

CHAPTER XIX

* * *

— _Atharys—_

Most would be broken by the idea of exile, yet Atharys felt his heart to be strangely content. Travelling halfway across Endórë from Morinórë to Lindon had not wearied him physically very much, having the blood of the Maiar, and in fact it made his head feel more clear.

Some nights, when he was not near enough to a city to find an inn, he would make camp under the starlight, and feel the cool rain upon his face. When he tilted his head back and opened his mouth to taste the rain, he felt half a child again, and the thought warmed him inside. There was such a beautiful world out there he had not seen.

One morning he woke to find the nose of a deer in his face. It startled him for a moment, but the deer more. He sat up, watching it run, fleet-footed, away into the trees. When he passed through cities, he would stop to observe the little things people ordinarily looked over. In a village by Hithaeglir, one of the only ones left after his father's pillages, he found himself wandering into a pleasant shop selling trinkets, lucky stones, and glittering necklaces. He ended up buying one of the stones, telling himself he would give it to his sister one day, so she would remember him when he was gone. Outside the shop, some children were playing in the streets. Yet he felt muted, suppressed, as if he was seeing this all behind a silver veil. Then when he looked up, rain had begun to fall again. . .

On a day he could not particularly recall, he reached Lindon. The elleth—Athaeben—had ordered him to be her informer and report upon the dealings of the High King of the Noldor, but he was his own master. If he had no intention to do so, he would not. He did not plan to return to Morinórë any time soon. Perhaps he would find the remaining Urulóki someday, after he had seen the world, or while he was.

Lindon was a city scintillating with quiet allure. He found a certain tenderness within its boundaries, as if he had at last found a home where he could rest. Cloisters leading to the sea were embellished in climbing jade vines, as were all of the structures he could see. There was a small teahouse by the waves overlooking the city that he found himself wandering into. Quietly he sat himself down at a table by the window, and a Sindarin elleth came up to him to take his order.

"Sir?" she asked, for he had been so lost in thought he did not notice her coming. "Would you like anything?"

"Forgive my ignorance," he said, turning from the window. "Tea, please."

"What kind?"

"Green."

"All right. It'll just be a moment."

He very much appreciated her courteousness, but he doubted she would still speak to him as such if she knew who he was, though he did not truly embody that title. He wondered how the High King would treat him if he knew who he was. Turning back to the window, he found himself thinking about his sister. She told him she had lived here, once, for a little while. It was when the ungolócë had still been consuming her as a fire from within. Sometimes he nearly forgot the poison still dwelt within her, yet now she had become a part of it. That was both terrifying and sad to think about.

"Are you all right?"

The elleth had returned with the tea. She took the cup and kettle off the tray and set it before him on the table.

"Yes," Atharys told her. "Just thinking."

"Sometimes it's funny how our own thoughts seem to invade ourselves."

He smiled faintly. "This is a beautiful city."

"Might as well enjoy its beauty while its still there." She glanced backwards. "Enjoy your stay."

When she had left, Atharys brought the cup to his lips and sipped a little. _What an ethereal city._

* * *

— _Mairon—_

The Krassatud did what they needed to do so nicely Mairon oft forgot what it was like for plans to go awry. Children were so easy to manipulate; they knew scarcely anything of the world, and when they believed in something, they could be fiercely dedicated. They lost themselves so perfectly in oblivion, following their instincts of violence as they pillaged traitor after traitor. Before long, there was not even any need for Mairon to tell them to, as they would initiate these attacks themselves. When terror spread through the land as a wildfire, he could at last have control.

"Are you certain this is the best way to gain support?" Pharazôn asked. He seemed like such a child too, asking these silly, ridiculous things. Mairon and the King of Númenor were standing by the window of the King's solar, watching another orange flower bloom in the night. Another traitor's house burning, burning, gone.

Nonetheless, Mairon knew he must have patience with a child. "This is the _only_ way." His voice was low, as if he was rasping a secret.

Pharazôn flinched as a seventeen-year-old Krassatud boy drove a hammer into the first victim's head. He pretended to refill his cup with wine so he would not have to watch.

"Don't look away," Mairon cooed softly. "Are you a craven?"

Angry, Pharazôn glared out to the executions below. The first victim had been an old man too frail to walk down, so the boy had killed him out of annoyance and inconvenience. The rest of the family cowered at the front of the burning house, save for the mother, who was trying to get back in the house. Evidently one of the children was still trapped within. The Krassatud boy dragged her out and began to rape her before her husband and children.

Pharazôn tried to turn away again.

Mairon lay a hand on his shoulder delicately and leaned close into his ear. "What's wrong?"

His bottom lip trembled, yet he still gritted his teeth. "N-Nothing."

"If you are wearied, Your Majesty—"

"I am _not_ ," Pharazôn hissed, then calmed his tone to an eerie quietness. "Thank you for your concern, High Priest."

"Your health is my utmost priority."

The night went on, in silence. Mairon supposed it dragged for Pharazôn, but for himself, he was at peace, content.

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

"Do you still refuse to accept the High Priest of Númenor?"

The seventeen-year-old boy who led their faction of Krassatud grasped a long, glittering sword in his hand pointed at the man on the ground. Glistening rain slid off the man's face as he turned his face upward to look directly at the boy. Kneeling on the ground, he was caked in mud to the waist and some had splattered onto his face.

"The Elendili live."

There was a sickening thump as the boy slammed the sword into the man's back. He fell face first into the mud, smothered by it, and the boy let him struggle there for a moment before wrenching him out of the mud and forcing him upright.

"You have been plotting against His Majesty, the King of Númenor," the boy declared. "A traitor, a usurper, and a craven. I, therefore, sentence you to die."

The man's eyes were calm. "So be it."

In a sudden frenzy of rage, the boy thrust the sword through the man's heart. For a moment everything stilled, and blood escaped from the man's mouth before he fell into the mud, buried by the rain alongside his wife and children.

Narbeleth realized that most of the others had fled, terrified at the boy's cruelty. The ones that were left stood in the back, rigid with fear. Gyldin was putting on an attempt to look unconcerned by the boy's actions.

"Died like a craven," Gyldin said, sauntering forward. "On his knees."

"Where are all the others?" the boy demanded, looking sharply around.

Narbeleth kept her hands behind her back so they would not see her shaking. "They went back to the house. It is getting late, and we have worked all night."

Yet the boy was not content. "Any more calls?"

She stepped forward. "I think that is enough for tonight."

The boy stared down at her, more than a head taller than her, but she did not drop her gaze.

"Fine." He kicked a loose stone and headed down the street. "Then you'll make me some good hot soup when we're back."

Narbeleth said nothing in reply; the boy was already too far away to hear anything she would have said. She continued behind him as Gyldin jumped up excitedly next to her.

"Did you see how he—"

"No." Narbeleth cut him off, then said no more. She hoped the tone of her voice said enough.

Gyldin lapsed into silence and followed her wordlessly back to the house where the 'soldiers' and 'guards' of the Krassatud dwelt. Yet it was nearly empty when they returned, save for a twelve-year-old boy hurrying around.

The boy, the leader of their faction, caught him by the collar. "Where is everyone?"

"Rally," he said. "The High Priest has called all the Krassatud in a rally."

Narbeleth found herself back in the mud and the rain of the night, being pushed and shoved around in the crowd of Krassatud trying to move forward. Torchlights in the fore of the rally gored their way through the darkness, illuminating the face of the High Priest. Narbeleth had seen him before, yet somehow tonight she found herself more awed than ever. He stood beneath a roof, dry from the rainstorm, and he seemed to glow as a fire. Suddenly she realized that the rain had dwindled a little; it seemed to lessen with each step she took forward.

Ar-Pharazôn stood beside the High Priest, his shoulders slouched, and even with his Sceptre, he ironically looked less kingly than the latter. He looked uncomfortable, in fact, and even a little nauseous. He was flanked by guards, while the High Priest had none, making him seem weaker and more vulnerable somehow. The power of the Maia had truly bewitched the hearts of the people of Númenor.

One of the guards punched his fist into the air. "Silence!"

The incessant rumbling of murmurs dwindled, then vanished.

The High Priest stepped forward, a quiet smile of amusement on his lips. "My Krassatud."

A turbulent cheer erupted through the gathered Krassatud.

That seemed to amuse the High Priest even more. "Númenor's Krassatud."

Again, the roaring cheer.

"You have done such good deeds for Númenor," the High Priest said. "Your King is so proud of you."

More cheering. Narbeleth wanted to shut her ears.

"Because of you, he may rest peacefully at last, content with the future of Númenor."

Murmurs through the crowd—of confusion, of alarm.

Ar-Pharazôn looked bewildered, stumbling forward and whispering angrily, frantically. The High Priest ignored him.

"His Majesty is ill, and old. The Valar have decreed the lives of Númenóreans to be short and forsaken. Ends come too early, and beginnings too long. The Valar have manipulated us, used us as their pawns. They care nothing for our lives." The High Priest paused, letting the words sink in. "Yet this all can be changed."

There was a commotion towards the back of the crowd. A line of children was marching through the rally, punching their fists and shouting.

 _The Elendili live! The Elendili live! The Elendili live!_

These were the remnants of the younger population of Númenor who had not become a part of the Krassatud, and they strode forward now, in an act of protest. Narbeleth glanced at the High Priest, who seemed scarcely ruffled by this opposition. If anything, his amusement grew. She realized suddenly, that Farothon was in the fore of the rebellion, his face set and determined.

The High Priest's mouth moved, as if in half time. _A life for a life._

He believed that the sacrifices would motivate the Lord of Shadow to lengthen the life of the King. Narbeleth remembered stories she had heard from other places afar. Some people sacrificed lives when the rain flooded their farms and they had no harvest for the year. Others sacrificed lives to reverse drought, or famine. It was a matter of survival, to sacrifice. This was too. If the Númenóreans did not, more yet would die. It would be an honor to be sacrificed.

The King's professional, adult guards were wading their way through to the rebels. Narbeleth stood rigid, not knowing what to do, as they seized Farothon and another girl and made their way back to the front. As the rebels tried to attack, some of the Krassatud held them back. Most looked frightened and did nothing.

The High Priest and Ar-Pharazôn stood silently to the side as the guards tied Farothon to the stake. So many people were screaming at once. Narbeleth felt her own breath choke herself in her throat. She tried to shove her way forward through the crowd, but she was so small—

Farothon's audacity had turned into terror. Tears were spilling out of his eyes, and he struggled to break free from the bonds as the fire was lit at the foot of the stake. Narbeleth's eyes flicked to the King. He wouldn't let this happen, he couldn't, he couldn't. Yet he stood unmoving, as if already dead.

Then so quickly, the fire was dancing and someone was singing—and when the night was over and the ugly dawn rose, another candle had died.


	79. Chapter III-XX

CHAPTER XX

* * *

— _The Sojourner—_

The screen of the _telain_ kept out the majority of the wind and rain as Taeloth stared down to the dewy grasses below. She thought she could hear soft music playing in the distance, somewhere around the heart of Lórinand. A lute, perhaps, and another deep stringed instrument. Yet aside from the music, there was no other sign of Eldalië nearby—only her and the _telain_ and the rain. Even knowing that Athaeben was somewhere out there with Nenya in peril, she felt subtly peaceful as she rested her back against the mallorn tree.

What did Nenya matter anyway? What did it do? Églanim—her father—had never told her, and she suspected Lord Celebrimbor never told him either. Loyal subjects like Églanim scarce questioned the commands they were given, at least, if they seemed to be right. Immediately Taeloth wondered if Églanim had truly been as loyal and valiant as he had seemed; after all, he had abandoned her mother and left her to weep. He had left her mother to die. He had left Taeloth herself alone in this world, when he should have been there for her when she was a mere child.

She directed her thoughts back to Nenya. In fact, she had never felt more power within herself when she was carrying it. She felt the same—still a little girl, still a sojourner. She wondered if she would ever be anything else than a weak little girl who depended on others for her survival; Lady Artanis had let her stay in her dwelling without any obligations, any form of payment. Someday, perhaps, she would change that _if_ to _when._ When she was something else that was not a weak little girl, she would change the world.

Once she might have been so disquieted by the loss of Nenya, and perhaps she would have chased Athaeben into the wilderness to seek revenge. And if she could not find Athaeben, she might have chased her fears all the way back to Morinórë, where she would kill Lord Mairon. Yet thinking about it now, she wanted to chuckle in amusement. She was only a little girl, and she had never learned how to fight, how to kill—except for Saerin. Yes, the blood of Saerin was still on her hands. Then she had been audacious, before she had learned the ways of the world. Taeloth shoved the memory of Saerin's death away. That had been a mistake. She had not known what she was doing, though it might have seemed like she did. Yet. . .yet—if she had known to fight, she might have had the power to kill the Chieftain before anything had happened.

In sudden decision, Taeloth flung open the screen of the _telain_ and began to hastily climb down the _hithlain_ ladder. Her feet hit the mud on the ground with a squelch that reminded her of a child playing in the rain, and instantly she began to run.

"Lady Artanis." She was gasping for air as she burst into the room, drenched with rain. "Lady Artanis!"

The elleth turned in surprise. "Taeloth."

"I want you—" She faltered, drawing in another gulp of air. "Please, Lady Artanis, can you teach me how to defend myself?"

Lady Artanis smiled faintly. "All right."

Taeloth found herself unable to stop smiling. "Really?"

"Yes." She stepped over to a bench and seated herself, patting the open space next to her. "Come sit."

Taeloth went cautiously, thinking it was a test.

"I'm not testing you," Lady Artanis said blatantly, stifling a laugh.

When at last, Taeloth managed to sit gingerly on the edge of the bench, Artanis began to speak.

"Do you remember Híthriel?"

Taeloth nodded.

"Well, when she was younger, she had asked the same of me. For a mere few years, I—and Melian—taught her the abstract arts of _sairina_. We taught her how to fly."

"Athaeben told me she is Lord Mairon's daughter, the Princess of Morinórë."

"Is?"

Taeloth had forgotten the others did not know. "Yes. She is still alive."

Lady Artanis was shocked. "Have you seen her?"

"No. Only heard of her. They say she has become dark and terrible, almost like her father himself."

Artanis was at a loss of words. "Hith. . .still alive—" She turned suddenly to Taeloth. "What has she been doing?"

"Aiding her father, they say. But I don't know anything else other than the smalltalk. I think—I think I heard once that she was married off to some Wainrider horselord, but I might have heard wrongly."

"Or not." Lady Artanis sighed. "I don't suppose there is anything we can do." She rose and turned away to the wall. "If you would leave me for a moment, Taeloth, I need to think."

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

Signalling my mare to halt, I glanced up at the tower of Lúmë-mindon above the incoming host of Wainriders. A battalion of horses' hooves thumped upon the earth, gradually slowing as they reached the tower.

"Everything all right, Your Highness?" Yrenân inquired. He had spurred his horse to a halt next to mine.

"Absolutely spectacular," I said, kicking my mare's sides and riding on. I found it amusing when Yrenân seemed to forget that I had not only the senses of an Elda, but also a Maia.

"Watch her," he muttered to Hesinyë.

All the men that call themselves Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders never learn, it seemed. Or simply only Chieftain. There were so many of them, and all they ever achieved was the persistent killing of each other. It was likewise with a High King of the Noldor, or any 'king'. I liked Gil-galad, but he would probably die soon. After all, my brother (fake brother—the stepbrother) had only ruled for sixteen years before he died, and the entire time a certain redhead (I'm sorry, I don't know what to call him) had ruled, he had been hanging atop a cliff.

At least with Mairon in Númenor, I would be a 'king' or perhaps 'queen' to suit the parallel of 'princess' more, though these were all ridiculous titles that meant nothing. And, if I was 'queen', then it also meant that I would die soon. Ah, what a tragedy. Atharys could take the title of 'king' if he wanted, though that sounded so strange on him. Furthermore, if that were true then it meant he would die soon, and that was certainly not good. Better to be left 'untitled'.

The first thing I did upon returning was serve myself a cup of red wine, yet the moment after I realized that seemed too much like Mairon, I set it down. "Where is my dear brother?" I demanded, stalking into the throne room.

The servants all gave me dull stares, none bowing in the usual courtesy of, 'Oh my Arda, Her Highness has come! Let us all bow and bang our heads so loud on the ground the Valar could hear us from across the sea!' Instead they did nothing, except for stare with blatant coldness at me.

Someone was approaching from behind me. It was then the servants bowed, murmurs of _Your Grace_ ringing through the hall.

I turned. It was an elleth, and though her eyes seemed to be blind, she walked in a straight, direct path toward me. She seemed somehow familiar, though I could not remember where I had seen her last.

Pausing directly before me, she drew in a deep breath of my scent. "At last I meet the person who killed my brother."

"Your brother?"

She nodded once, a cold nod. "His name was Silivros."

Furrowing my brow, I tilted my head, studying her more closely. This had taken me by surprise, and I had failed to hide that. "You are. . ." I fought to remember what her name was. Silivros had told me once before we had both perished in Hithaeglir. _Ah, the curse of the ungolócë._ "Athaeben."

A humorless smile flickered on her lips. "Indeed, _Your Highness._ "

"He told me he had not seen you since the Bragollach, and you never went back to Doriath after everything. . .so he believed you to be dead."

"Sometimes things get in the way," Athaeben mused. "Inconvenient things. You would know of them."

"I suppose so." I studied her unseeing eyes. "What made you lose your sight?"

"Snake poison."

"And how did that manage to land in your eyes?"

She gave me a menacing stare, but she was looking past me, and so that attempt at intimidation fell quickly. "Your father."

I pressed my lips together. "I am not surprised."

"As might be expected—" Athaeben's voice was a low rasp. "—you are used to these acts of cruelty. Though I would suggest you be more polite to your brother's mother."

My eyes widened, and in that moment of shock, she thrust herself forward, her dagger directed at my throat. Out of practiced intuition, I wheeled backwards, avoiding the attack, yet it was not finished. She made a sharp turn, throwing herself behind me and again forced the dagger to my throat. I caught the blade with both hands, locking us both in a struggle of strength, and felt the cold blade cut into bone as blood leaked from my ravaged fingers.

Stabbing my elbow into her ribs, I rolled to the side and the dagger fell clattering to the floor. As she was still gasping for breath, I dived forward and, my fingers curling around her throat, thrust her head against the wall. She produced another dagger from her garb and made to knife me through, but I caught and twisted her wrist so sharply that something in it broke and bone jabbed out of the skin.

She did not cry out in pain, nor struggle, yet only stared at the ground with cloudy eyes filled with hatred. Her teeth were gritted and she breathed heavily through her nose. My bloodied hand around her throat stained it red, and she seemed as if she already had her throat slit. I watched as her blood escaped out of her skin and leaked to the floor. My own had already mingled with hers. She would die either way.

"Where is Atharys?" I demanded.

Athaeben did not answer.

I shook her, crushing the fingers around her throat. " _Answer me!"_

She laughed, an unfeeling sound. "I executed him."

Silence had suddenly become a weight more than the world upon my shoulders.

A voice full of disbelief, hatred, rage—

"You lie."

"No, I do not." Athaeben drew in a gasping breath, choking on her own blood. She coughed and scarlet trickled out of the corner of her mouth. I did not move. A new, trembling fire had been ignited in my eyes, and it now began to wax. She opened her mouth again, the bottom lip quivering. "Kill me."

The knife at my side united with my hand, my fingers wreathing around the smooth hilt.

"He was looking for you, you know. For all these years, your brother was looking for you."

"I know," she said quietly.

I rested the point upon the rise and fall of her chest and eased the knife slowly in until it hit the wall. She still breathed, yet as the moments went by they grew more laboured and more faint. Her eyes looked up to the sky. Then she moved no more.

* * *

— _The Fish in the Gully—_

The tourneys of Lond Daer went on, as if the mob had never happened. Knights from Númenor, Pelargir, Umbar, Tharbad, and Lond Daer came to take part in this biannual tourney called by Lord Belyswë himself. Flocks of civilians and commoners gathered as well as lords from other cities. Even the children watched as men wearing shining silver armour tore each other apart, some never to draw breath again.

Even from a distance, Rhystórë could hear the clanging of swords and the shouts of the audience as the tourney went on. He did not remember falling unconscious, but he had woken up in a barn full of pigshit and hay, covered in dried mud and blood. In fact, he scarcely remembered anything—everything was all wrapped in emotion, and reason was beyond thought.

Listlessly, languidly, he rose into a sitting position, a pig sniffing his face. Pushing it away, he struggled to stand and staggered out of the barn, his feet dragging. He made his way down the street, near empty from the commotion of the tourney. Yet as he walked, more drive, more fire seemed to come into him, beginning as a small spark and growing into an inferno. Suddenly he found himself running—charging past the empty streets, the empty shops, the empty lights, the empty people, and to the tourney, where he knew Belyswë would be. Yes, Belyswë would be there, watching people die and kill each other for sport. For the love of pain, for the love of sport, what was the difference?

Like a fish in a gully, he could not swim. Perhaps once he had lived in the river, but it had long dried up after its duty of carving the ravine was done. Perhaps now he lay in the mud, unable to breathe nor move. Perhaps the shadow of remembrances was but a spark that would not elude his memory.

"Lord Belyswë!" he shouted as he burst into the tourney ring.

One of the knights in the ring glanced towards his direction, and the other, taking no mercy, dragged his sword across his throat. The former knight fell backwards, his head half lolling off. Someone came to take his body away, and the latter knight set his hands on his hips and scowled at Rhystórë.

Belyswë came forward, keeping Rhystórë's gaze. "Yes, little brother?"

The gathered crowd was whispering behind them, the sound like the rustle of withered leaves in the gale.

"I, Rhystórë, son of Daethad, challenge you, the Lord of Lond Daer, Belyswë, son of Daethad, in a game of swords."

Belyswë laughed. "Is that so? You swore yourself to me."

"Oaths can be broken."

"Hm," Belyswë nodded and turned a little away. "I see."

There was a moment of silence.

Belyswë turned to someone on the side. "Give this man a sword."

Rhystórë stepped back as the people's mutters began to grow and envelop him wholly. He accepted the sword that was given to him, and twisted it in his hands as Khalentharia had taught him. But she was dead now, and none of that mattered anymore.

"Look at me," he said to Belyswë.

"You think I will be afraid of that? You think that will intimidate me into surrendering?"

"No," he said quietly. "I just want you to know."

They sprung into a clash of silver, red, and black. There was one other color too, but it was something more like nothing at all. It was not white but clear, yet not scintillating like stars but dull like a veiling curtain. Sometimes when anger seized a hold of you, there was no way of going back. It was so sudden too—you scarcely had any time to even process what had happened before you did it. It snapped, like a string that had been pulled taut for so long and had finally given up. And there really wasn't a way to put that string back together again. Once it snapped, it was like that forever.

Many times Rhystórë feigned his attacks, moving like an adder while Belyswë relied on brute force. Without his sword, however, he was nothing more than a lump of blood and flesh all held together by bone. The battle seemed to last for mere minutes, flooded with the memory and the fury.

Rhystórë scarcely remembered any of his wounds. When he received them he kept going, on and on and on. _This is it,_ he thought. _This is the end._ At last his body gave up and him and he stumbled to the ground, falling on his back, Belyswë towering over him.

"It seems, little brother, that oaths cannot be broken," Belyswë said.

 _No, you are wrong. You have always been wrong._ Then he thrashed his sword above himself in a desperate flail.

Suddenly Belyswë's eyes went wide, and he stopped mid-step. Rhystórë wondered what had happened. Then he saw the thin line of blood well from his throat, and Belyswë collapsed to the ground.

 _That was it? That had been so easy—too easy. Not enough, not enough, not enough—_

Rhystórë forced himself up and stabbed his sword into Belyswë's body. It twitched, but not enough. He stabbed him again. _Not enough, not enough, not enough._ And again, and again, and again.

Amid the mire and blood, there was something shining in the light. _The ring,_ he thought. _The ring I had been emissary for. From Morinórë._ He picked it up, curiously, like a child finding something new. It would only be dangerous if he said it so. Only then would he want it, and he wanted it now. Not before, but he wanted it now.

 _Not enough._

The future sang to him—the Witch-king of Angmar.


	80. Chapter III-XXI

CHAPTER XXI

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

Light snowfall plagued the air.

To most, it might have seemed calming, tranquil—yet to me it evoked too much of the remembrances of the past. _Himring, wasn't it? It would snow just lightly there before the deep of the winter came. And Hithlum, too. Don't you remember what it was like to skate on the frozen lakes as a child? Have you forgotten so quickly?_ What a relief that would be if people had no sense of thought or memory. Without the mind, we were scarcely anything. Yet with the mind, we could think, we could lose, we could feel.

And now, it seemed that the last person that had truly gave a damn about me was gone. I closed my eyes, letting a tear escape out of one of them. _You deserved so much better, Atharys_. Though raised by a terrible person, he kept true to himself and remained his own kind self. No matter how hideous the situation, he remembered who he was inside. Killed by his own mother—was that the fate of those like him? There were so few left.

I made my way back to the grounds of Lúmë-mindon. People were already gathered there at the execution site, murmuring, many wearing long grey cloaks to keep out the snow. They parted for me when I arrived, so I did not have to shove them aside as I would have done.

At the front of the assembly was Hestáryn and Tiríssë, chained and blindfolded. I halted before them, and for a moment all that had gathered went silent. Then suddenly I reached forward and wrenched the blindfolds off their faces. The rags fell to the snow, nearly silent.

"Any last words?" I said.

While Tiríssë looked down to the ground, his gaze dull, Hestáryn stared directly at me, still smug. His chin was lifted and a complacent smile stretched across his lips.

"Nothing that would please you, _Your Highness_." Hestáryn did not seem to truly believe I would kill him.

I nodded once, militaristic. "All right then." I unsheathed my dagger.

At the sound of it, Hestáryn grew suddenly alarmed—his eyes widened, laced with fear, and he began to struggle a little.

"Your Highness, I have something—"

His words were cut off mid-sentence as the quick swing of my sword split open their throats and blood pooled down like a waterfall. I watched the red stain the white of the snow as their limbs jerked in the last struggle. Then they were dead, and I turned to the gathered people.

They waited. But saying nothing, I turned away and began to stride back to the throne room. Yrenân hurried after me and caught my shoulder.

"It seems you have been terribly busy, Your Highness."

I walked on. "I am."

"Yet you must not forget," Yrenân said, struggling to keep up, "that you are still my prisoner."

"No." I halted. "Don't you remember, sweetling? We are allies, and I walk free."

Without another word, I turned away, and this time he did not follow me.

* * *

— _Mairon—_

He closed his eyes, breathing in the stiflingly sweet scent of the sacrificial smoke, feeling his lungs expand and contract. The Temple of Melkor, it seemed, was the only place where he could find tolerable peace within himself. Unlike before, he did not wish to think so much, yet when he was in public making speeches about the deeds done in the name of Ar-Pharazôn, the people were always too boisterous for his liking. Somehow in the Temple, he scarcely had to even think. All he did was breathe in the smoke, and he would know what to do. Elendili smelled lovely when burning.

His eyes were still closed when Pharazôn entered the hall, disturbing the silent solitude of the Temple.

"High Priest," the King of Númenor said in greeting.

"Your Majesty." Mairon's voice seemed to be a mere whisper. He opened his eyes. "I am honoured by your presence. How may I serve you?"

Pharazôn glanced at the ashes of Nimloth, the White Tree, that embellished the base of the altar and jerked his chin at it. "Civil war is sprouting all through the land. The man who stole the fruit to the damn tree is part of leading party. They say his name is Isildur, son of Elendil, son of Amandil."

"I know," Mairon said softly. He would never forget their names. Their deaths would come by his hand someday—those who had marred the beauty of this new earth.

Pharazôn chuckled. "What do you not know, my lord?"

"Many things." He said no more.

"Well," Pharazôn went on, "I have already sent others across the sea, and they have conquered yet more lands in the western lands of Endórë. The dominion of Númenor shall stretch over much of Arda, perhaps all."

"Who are you to be ruled?" Mairon said.

Pharazôn seemed to be confused by that. "I'm sorry?"

"Who are you to be ruled? You are His Majesty Ar-Pharazôn, King of Kings, the mightiest of the sons of the Earth, to whom Manwë alone can be compared, if even he. Yet the Valar—they withhold a great power from you, one they have gifted to the Eldalië, yet not you. What justice is this? A false one, wicked, torn from shambles. And though, doubtless, the gift of life unending is not for all, but only for the worthy. Ask them, ask them truly—are you, Your Majesty, not a man of might and pride and great lineage?"

"I know well the Valar are false." Pharazôn's voice had become a low hiss brimming with contempt. "I know well I walk under the shadow of death. And you have told me, High Priest, that you would return this gift to me."

"I have returned very much of it—" and Pharazôn made to speak again, angrily, but Mairon caught him by the wrist, cutting him short, "—yet not enough. Lord Melkor is still imprisoned by the Valar, cast into the Timeless Void. He does not have to power to fulfill your destiny in full."

Pharazôn was distressed. "What would you have me do—"

Mairon shushed him, like a child. "I am about to tell you, Your Majesty. The Valar have possessed themselves of the land where there is no death, and they lie to you concerning it. They hide it as best they may because of their avarice and because of their fear—lest the Kings of Men should wrest from the deathless realm and rule the world in their stead."

"That was no answer—"

"No." Mairon gazed directly into Pharazôn's eyes. "You are the King of Kings, Your Majesty. This is your realm."

It was then a slow smile began to etch itself onto Pharazôn's lips, morphing into a laugh. "Ah, I see. Thank you, dearest High Priest. I appreciate your council very much." He turned and began to make his way out of the hall, his boots clicking on the black marble floor.

When Pharazôn had nearly departed from the hall, Mairon spoke again.

"Your Majesty, if I may have a hint of your plans?"

Ar-Pharazôn halted and turned, the glint of fire in his eyes. "War upon the Valar."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

She screamed and slammed her fist into the wall. It did nothing. She did it again. Still nothing—no harm to the wall, no not the damn wall, only herself. Blood ran from between her knuckles and down her arms as she raised them, like little snakes wriggling beneath the sleeves of her clothes. _Damn it, damn it, damn it._ Out of all the people, it had to be Farothon. Why wouldn't she have been the one? She should have never joined the Krassatud—it had never done any good for her any way. She told herself she had joined for the food and the shelter they would provide her, yet that seemed a lie. Everything seemed a lie.

Alone now, was she? That was amusing, _so_ amusing. Oropher was somewhere back in Eryn Galen, Hinaeryn gone somewhere she did not know, likely dead, and Farothon executed by the High Priest of Melkor. She didn't care about Gyldin, whom she had only just met. She had saved him out of necessity, but she came to find he was a damn bastard like all the rest of them. _Died like a craven. On his knees._ Those had been his words—his words after witnessing a seventeen-year-old boy murder an Elendili and his family, after witnessing brutality beyond reason, after witnessing the beginning of the downfall of Númenor.

Narbeleth knew. Oh yes, she knew. The High Priest's cruel, unjust regime would not last forever. It might last long, it might last a few years, a few months, a day. But it would end, someday, and she wanted to be part of that downfall. Sacrifice would be worth it, especially when she had nothing left to lose.

"Narbeleth—" Gyldin said uncertainly from behind her.

" _Get away from me!"_ she shrieked, overturning a chair and hurling it at him. "Leave me alone, you son of a bitch."

That made the boy prickly. "What did I ever do to you, Narbeleth? Hm?"

"Be the way you are." She turned, chest heaving, toward him. In the near darkness, her eyes were mere pits of shadow and half her face engulfed in nothing. "I should have never saved you from the fall."

His brow was furrowed, but he turned and stalked off down the corridor.

The night had thickened some hours more when Narbeleth swept out of the chamber to the common room. There was no one there—everyone was out raiding the remaining Elendili, and the room seemed to be filled with ghosts, a feeling when nothing was everything. Her gaze swept over the empty place once before she departed, striding out of the door and into the night.

It wasn't very difficult to find the remnants of the rebelling children—the ones that Farothon had been with. They had a stolen house of their own in the outskirts of Armenelos; they had been driven back to there after the sacrifices of the night a fortnight ago. After all, they were only children, and they were afraid. Most of the time people weren't as brave and valiant as they seemed to be.

It had been raining again, and by the time Narbeleth had arrived to the place, the rain had dampened her hair. Though it was hours past midnight, the main room was still packed with shouting children, and Narbeleth wondered if she could find anyplace where there were no people in pandemonium. They were dragging someone in through the door.

Narbeleth shoved her way to the front of the commotion, some of the little ones cowering away from her just by feeling the aura of anger she was giving off. As she looked to see, she found that it was a girl, caked in mud and rain, crying softly.

"Why have you brought her here?" she demanded.

Many of them hushed and turned to her when she spoke, as she seemed to be one of the older ones, and none of the little ones said anything. Most would not notice if she was a stranger; they were scarcely any better organized than the Krassatud.

"Her father is a knight of the King," one of them said. Narbeleth did not know who had spoken, and she did not care.

That scarcely seemed like an answer to her for a moment, until she realized—

"Ah," Narbeleth said. "A life for a life."

"Indeed." The one who had initially spoken stepped forward into the torchlight, but Narbeleth did not care enough to remember his face. "And you are?"

"My name is Narbeleth of Eryn Galen, daughter of Ambarwen. I have come to kill the High Priest of Melkor. I know things, and I remember things." She tilted her head up and breathed in, feeling the air rush into her lungs. "And what I remember right now is the death of the boy we all knew as Farothon. He was an innocent child, and the High Priest murdered him for the life of the King of Númenor, who has done nothing but treat us with unjust cruelty. I am sure you remember the deeds of the Krassatud. What they did to the Elendili." She prayed they would not know where she was from, but even if they did, what did she care? "You are the children of Elendili—you must remember."

They were all looking at her now—they saw her as a leader, someone to trust, someone to follow. "I think," she said quietly, "it would do us all well to avenge the prejudiced deaths of our friends and family."

The girl had begun to cry again, but Narbeleth did not hear it. She stepped forward to the boy who had spoken initially, staring directly into the depths of his eyes. Even then when she was so close, she did not see him. Sharply, she drew out her knife from its sheath and pressed it into the boy's hand.

"Quick work, slow work—your choice," she said.

"I think we all prefer stones." Without giving the knife back to her, he turned away.

The gathered children all raised their stones—the older ones with rocks, and the little ones with pebbles. Narbeleth remained where she was as they swooped forward in a wild tempest, descending upon their little prey. She watched and listened all the way through, standing in the back of the room where the light of the candles could not reach, where the shadows dwelt. Yet did she truly perceive? It seemed suddenly that none would ever know.


	81. Chapter III-XXII

CHAPTER XXII

* * *

— _Mairon—_

He scarcely ever left the Temple. Whether the sky hinted at a cold morning or a lonely night did not matter to him. As it happens, he could not remember the last time he had gone outside. The public speeches had become less frequent then at last illusory as Ar-Pharazôn grew more sure of himself and was able to take control of the people on his own. Need drove the King of Númenor, the King of Kings, as Mairon had called him in flattery—the fear of death. Indeed, he was born to never die, and thus it was called need. You could call it many things, and it would all depend on who you were.

He did not need to leave the Temple; he would only need to close his eyes and breathe in the smoke to see what was happening as Pharazôn grasped a hold on all the remaining gears and made them turn. _War upon the Valar._ They were the King's own words. There was no need for Mairon to tell him. It was the last stride forward before the end.

Though this, of course, was all so ironic that Mairon could amuse himself for hours while staring into the flames. He remembered the might of the Valar—their power. It was not possible for the Númenóreans to win a battle of arms against them. And Ar-Pharazôn was no true king; it was all Mairon who had made the rust of the gears pristine again, who had been the one to propel them, who had been the one to polish them until they were glimmering silver and gold. If Ar-Pharazôn was a king, then Mairon was Lord of the Earth. And what could a mere man do against one who had mastered the ways of the earth? After all, they have not seen true power.

In the flames, he watched the Númenóreans work relentlessly as they prepared for war. Their spears like a forest would splinter and fall. Their tempest of arrows would disintegrate into mere mist as they were fired. Their swords would bend and blunt at the unquenchable wildfire they would meet. Their ships made of mere wood plastered together would burn. Fire—it seemed to be the end to all things. And fire was what Mairon embodied. He _was_ fire. Thus, he could not be killed.

When he opened his eyes again, his eyes were uplifted toward the ceiling. The initially silver dome had become black with soot, like a large barrel of ungolócë had been spilled upon it, and it was now creeping down the sides of the Temple. How his daughter would laugh at this. Perhaps she would even be pleased that he had at last destroyed the race of Men who had brought about the ruin of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Ah, wasn't it so _difficult_ to forget pain.

"High Priest," Pharazôn said.

Mairon turned his uplifted face toward the man. "Yes, Your Majesty?" Even now he despised calling him by this title; it should be given to himself.

"My preparations have come to an end," Pharazôn told him. "I am ready."

"Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but you have come all this way to tell me this? Do you see me as your mother? It seems every time you deem an accomplishment has been made you come running to me to tell me of it. I wonder when you had ceased to suck on your mother's teats. Perhaps never." Mairon found it difficult to restrain himself now, yet he knew he had to drive Pharazôn onward, so he excused himself for it.

Pharazôn tensed, insulted. It seemed he was about to resort to his child's tantrums for a moment before he let out a slow breath and clenched his jaw, drawing close to Mairon. The voice that ensued was a whisper. "No, in fact, dearest High Priest."

"Hm, is that so? Good, then. Your mother would expect better of you."

The King of Númenor tilted the corners of his lips upward. "We will not meet again for some while, High Priest. I wish you luck and better days. We will rule a great kingdom when I return."

"Indeed," Mairon whispered. "Farewell, Your Majesty."

Pharazôn dipped his head. "Farewell."

Mairon did not care to watch a dead man go.

Weeks transpired, and Mairon received no tidings of them. The Valar's messages went unseen, unheard, unread. The only people that were left in Númenor were the women, the children, the elderly, and the weak. Peasant rebellions rose often, but they would never try to penetrate the Temple for their fear of the fire.

The candles burned out, and there was no more wax to be shaped into candles, so he lived his days in darkness. The only light came from the louver, which shone streaks of soft, pale light down to the altar. Mairon loved the beautiful sight; it reminded him of a dewy forest after a night of light rain. There would be grey clouds drifting in the firmament, and at some stray point they would part and reveal those streaks of pale light. How he missed those sights.

One day he was dozing upon the ground before the ashen altar when he heard the faint _drip drip_ of rain somewhere. _There cannot be rain in the Temple_ , he thought as he cracked open scarcely rested eyelids. Before him, upon the altar, there seemed to be an apparition floating. Immediately he shot up into an upright position, his legs still sprawled atop the ashes.

"My lord Melkor—" Mairon's words staggered like a crippled man. "My lord, do you see me? Have you seen what I have done for you? It was all for you. Can you see—can you see—" He gestured wildly behind him at the Temple and the ashes of the sacrifices cloaking the ground like a blanket. "I seduced the King of Númenor and I felled their people. I took control of them. I _am_ their true king. It was me—it was me—Don't you see? Now they're going, going to the Valar, to make war upon them, and something will all be done about this. You'll return, I promise, my lord. You will."

But the ghost upon the altar said nothing, and only gazed at him.

" _Damn you!"_ he screamed. "Damn you, _damn_ you! _Talk_ to me! I've been alone all these years—with no one on my side. No one. I'm alone. Won't you _help_ me?" He screamed again at the ghost and the towering ceiling, driving all of the hate and anger out of him. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry I couldn't stop the War of Wrath from happening—I'm _sorry._ I—I don't know what else I can do—"

Suddenly he hated being in the Temple and he shoved himself to his feet, staggering away from the ghost and the altar and the ashen floor. Blood roared in his ears, and the pounding of his head was beginning to feel like the ceaseless tattoo of a drum. He was having trouble walking—his knees kept giving out under him and he could never get a hold of his feet. Suddenly he realized through the illusions and turmoil of his mind that it was the earth itself that was shaking.

Shoving his tears away, he tried to spring forward and seize the ghost upon the altar, but it was already gone. "No. No, _NO._ "

Golden statues were falling before him, crushing other weaker artifacts. Mairon bent his knees as deep as he could, trying to find balance to conjure his wings and escape through the louvre, yet as the wings sprouted from his back and he made to take to the air, the massive statue of Melkor shook and crashed down onto him.

He let out a cry of agony as his legs were trapped in a twisted position beneath him and the bones in his back _crack_ ed. His right leg had snapped at the knee, and he could not feel his arms, both pinned. The bones in his wings were mangled likewise, and he felt blood seep down his shoulders, his back. For a moment he could do nothing but smash his teeth together to try and bear the pain. Tears of pain were coursing down his cheeks. He wished he had a stick to bite on, anything. He could not breathe—his lungs were crushed and he was choking on his own breath somehow; he was breathing too fast, too fast—

The roof came down upon his head, and right before he was cast into darkness, he saw a great wave, and he tasted bitterness in his mouth. Fire, it seemed, was not the end to all things. _After all, water can smother a fire._

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

The anguished screams of people plagued the air as they ran to and fro, colliding with each other and letting their own supplies fall. Some fell, were run over, and never rose again. Others were the ones who stepped over the bodies of their kinsmen, seeming to not care. Even as Númenor shook, the ships were leaving the ports, and they could only hold so many people.

 _You can't save everyone, can you?_ That was what Narbeleth had learned; they were the words she had thought to herself as the child at the plantation tumbled off the cliff after the almost tender push of the overseer. And now even the kindest and fairest people of Númenor were doing the same—Amandil, Elendil, and Isildur—the leaders of the Elendili. They had to leave some behind. It seemed not even the great could elude these little troubles.

Narbeleth walked directly forward to the ports, not hurrying. Though it seemed to be a brisk and confident walk, she did not particularly wish to return to Endórë. _It would be all right if I died here. No one would remember me._ Her mother she had never met was dead, Hinaeryn was likely lost, and Oropher would be gone soon; the plague of the High Priest Tar-Mairon would spread and devour all in its path. And she did not forget Farothon, who she had let die. Neither did she forget the girl she had let die, or more precisely worded, killed. She had approved of it, silently; she had stepped back and watched it all happen. _Quick work, slow work—your choice,_ she had said. She wondered what she had become.

Somehow no one ran her over like they had so many times in the market on the first day the Krassatud was formed. Small children only up to her waist would topple into her sometimes then keep running, and others would brush past her, but she would never fall. Perhaps her determination came from her earlier words to the children of the Elendili. _My name is Narbeleth of Eryn Galen, daughter of Ambarwen. I have come to kill the High Priest of Melkor. I know things, and I remember things._

She halted. Someone stood in her path.

"Gyldin," she said quietly. "Get out of my way."

"I take no orders from a _traitor,_ " the boy hissed.

"And who are you to call me a traitor? You yourself—you are a traitor to the lives of living beings." _As am I._ But he would not know that. In her heart, at least, she knew what was right, even if she did not do it. A pity for the world. "The Krassatud was nothing more than a horde of silly children playing around with violence, and innocents suffered for it."

Gyldin seemed not to hear her. He took a step forward, and Narbeleth noticed the sword in his hand. "You betrayed us."

She lifted her chin. _I fear nothing_ , she told herself. "I did."

"You only joined the Krassatud out of greed—because you wanted food and shelter. You did not truly devote yourself to the cause."

"No," Narbeleth said. "It was the wrong cause."

"You are simple-minded, and you know nothing of the greatness of Númenor. You do not understand what it is like to be a true Númenórean, what it is like to have this blood flowing in your veins—"

He stumbled suddenly, as another tremor shook the earth. The shaking became so powerful that he seemed to be a blur of multiple facets and façades before her as he lost his balance and fell on his back, his sword clattering out of his hand. Narbeleth kept close to the ground, bending her knees and clutching the earth, but she still fell on top of her face, scabbing her cheekbone.

The moment a brief respite to the tremors came, Narbeleth sprang forward, seizing the sword Gyldin had dropped on the ground. She spun it around, getting used to the weight of it under her fingers. It felt. . .good—powerful. She pointed it at Gyldin, who was still on the ground, and rested the edge of the blade at the side of his neck.

The skin at the neck was always so soft, so easy to kill. All it took was one accidental slip—and he would be on his way to death. It would be slow business if the wound was smaller.

"You wouldn't kill me," Gyldin sneered. "You've always been the good one. Don't you remember? On one of your first raids, you nearly ordered our commander to stop. Can't take blood, can't take pain, can't watch other people suffer, can you? Well, I'll tell you—if you cut me right there, where that skin is so soft, so delicate, you will have to watch me suffer as I die. And that, watching me, you cannot elude—would not—because you are so righteous. I have said it now, so you must."

"Do you really think that?" Narbeleth said quietly.

Gyldin put on a show of surprise like one does when they have been asked a question so stupid they feel there is no need to even respond. "Of course. You are a girl, and a weak one. Yes, indeed. You should have let me die. You should have let me fall like that other boy did off that stupid cliff. Perhaps it would have hardened you to watch. Perhaps then you would have truly believed in the Krassatud."

"Yet I don't."

Narbeleth stepped back, sliding the sword off the boy's neck.

"Ignorant children are not who I wish to kill."

She walked past him and to the port, keeping the sword.

Behind her, the tension of the air swelled as Gyldin stood, contempt brimming in his eyes. He lunged forward, meaning to seize her neck and throttle her, but yet again the ground trembled.

Narbeleth could feel the earth frothing beneath her feet, about to burst, and she began to run. _Even if I have no one, I have a target, a purpose. My name is Narbeleth of Eryn Galen, daughter of Ambarwen. I have come to kill the High Priest of Melkor. I know things, and I remember things._ The last ship was already leaving the port; she would have to jump down from the precipice if she were to make it.

She looked down—it seemed so far and so dangerous. _Could I jump that far?_ Sometimes inside, she was still a child, and she doubted herself so much.

Suddenly, her hair was wrenched back so violently that her head was forced up to the thundering sky and for a moment, she choked, rolling upon the ground. She knew it was Gyldin, but she did not want to hurt him. She gasped, regaining herself. Her legs shot out beneath her as she scrambled to her feet and bolted past him and leaped.

Her fingers brushed the rim of the ship. . .then was left with nothing but air to grasp on.

 _So this is the end,_ she thought. _How funny._ If they ever told stories about her, how would it go? In the beginning, she was a silly little girl, spoiled like a princess by her aunt and King Oropher of Eryn Galen, though it didn't really go like that. But then, one day, she lost her way and became a slave for some time. Then she decided to gain her freedom by joining a cult of murderous children, yet realized she didn't really want that. It seems, however, she still liked to get her revenge so she let some little girls die. And when she finally knew what she wanted to do, she lost her grip and fell. The end.

She cried out as a flaring pain stabbed into her shoulder. _It seemed to be dislocated—how did that happen, I was only falling. . ._

In sudden realization—the air was no longer rushing by her and there was a fierce grip upon her arm—she looked up.

"H-Hinaeryn?"

The next moment later, her feet were back on solid ground again, and she was crying into Hinaeryn's already damp shoulder.

She looked back and saw that a great, yawning fissure had opened up in the ground where she had jumped from. There was no one left on the precipice—only the ghost of a mad boy that would plague her for years to come.


	82. Chapter III-XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

The last night before they would reach the coast of Endórë, the ship hit a storm and sank. Narbeleth found herself remembering that dream she had had all that time ago in Eryn Galen, when she had known so little, an innocent little girl. Perhaps she really had known all this time of the Downfall of Númenor from that ridiculous dream about the great wave.

Some aboard the ship survived by clinging on to a piece of large driftwood until they washed up upon the shore. _A blessing from the Valar,_ some might have said before, but not now. Narbeleth didn't care if other didn't survive; as long as Hinaeryn did, she could keep her sanity. She had nearly lost it in Númenor, with the one mistake she had made. _Then I was not myself,_ she told herself. _Then I was trying to be someone I couldn't be and didn't want to be._

The wild was a harsh way to survive, but Narbeleth somehow neglected it, finding herself lost in her own thoughts most of the time. Yet even then, her thoughts were scarcely coherent. She found that, most of the time, when she was staring off into nothing, she in fact wasn't thinking of anything. Just—nothing. That was all there was now.

"Narbeleth?" Hinaeryn said, looking at her with concern. "Narbeleth?"

She had been staring distantly into the fire again. "Yes?"

Hinaeryn pointed at her chunk of half-eaten venison. "Finish your meal."

At that, a feeling of warmth spread though Narbeleth, though before she might have found that irritating. It had been so long since someone had scolded her for not eating. Smiling mischievously, a ghost of her former self, Narbeleth brought the meat to her teeth and ripped of a chunk, chewing vigorously.

"You came after me," she said at last.

"I did." Hinaeryn inhaled and glanced at the fire uneasily. "Yet I could not find you, and I was taken as a slave myself."

"But it was all right in the end. That's all that matters."

Hinaeryn smiled. "Indeed. That is all that matters. Me and you. And now that we can be a family again, we'll make the best of it."

Narbeleth wavered for a fraction of a second, remembering the words she had spoken. _My name is Narbeleth of Eryn Galen, daughter of Ambarwen. I have come to kill the High Priest of Melkor. I know things, and I remember things._

"Narbeleth?"

She had gotten lost in thought again.

"Ah, yes." She went back to finishing the venison.

There was some silence save the crackling of the fire and the quiet voices of the other survivors conversing.

"What will we do?" Narbeleth said suddenly. She had finished the venison, and now threw the bones into the fire.

"What do you mean?" Hinaeryn inquired.

"Where do we go now?" She wasn't sure if she wanted to return to Eryn Galen. She considered other places—Lindon, Harlond, Lórinand—yet her heart desired to go nowhere.

Hinaeryn looked uncertain about answering as she opened her mouth slowly, considering her next words. "Well—"

She was cut brusquely off by a woman's cry behind her.

Narbeleth jolted to her feet, seizing the sword she had stolen from Gyldin to find that a band of orcs was gaining on them swiftly. She glanced hastily around, looking for someone to help or kill. The woman that had been stabbed clean through the back clutched her wound as blood welled from between her fingers before she fell to the ground.

"Narbeleth!" Hinaeryn shouted. "Stay with me." She wielded a sword with both her hands, a different form from what most were used to, and she stood in a grounded stance at the ready as orcs came charging toward her.

As they began to near, Narbeleth realized how small she was in comparison to the towering orcs. She remembered Oropher telling her that these attacks were becoming more common, but she had never before thought she would be trapped in the middle of one herself. Shifting her grip upon the hilt, she thought about how she had no callouses upon her hands like she would have earned from long years of training. Yet standing here, before a charging band of orcs, she was defenseless even with a sword. _If you don't know how to use a weapon, you might as well be empty-handed._

She found herself merely standing there, terror etched upon her face, as Hinaeryn fought off every orc that tried to come near her. They swarmed like ants, however, and many times they came very close before Hinaeryn was able to lead them away. _I am useless._ Narbeleth had resolved to rebuke herself. _I don't even know how to hold a sword._ What did her pledge of killing the High Priest mean, if she could scarcely even accomplish this?

Hinaeryn cried out. An orc had caught her upon the arm, and she staggered back, clutching the bleeding wound.

Narbeleth stumbled forward, crying out her name, but a massive orc stood in her way, curved dagger in hand. Her arms suddenly felt as if they were weighing her down, as if they weighed a thousand mûmakils. She screamed, slamming her sword into its thigh, yet it seemed to do nothing to impede it. She did it again, and again, and again—or maybe she only did it once and the others only existed in her mind, or perhaps they all had been illusory the whole time.

Suddenly the curved point of a blade was protruding out of the orc's ribs, and Narbeleth scarcely ever saw how it got there. The creature fell, and her savior was revealed.

She didn't particularly care, however, and ran to Hinaeryn.

"I'm all right," Hinaeryn said, waving her away. She turned to the man who had somehow cleared their surroundings of breathing orcs. "Thank you."

"We must leave. More will come." He began to stride briskly away. "Follow me."

Hinaeryn raised her brow. "You're not one of us."

"No."

"May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

He hesitated for a moment, perhaps thinking it not safe. It was then that Narbeleth paid closer attention to who he was, realizing that he was no Elda, but a Maia.

"Atharys," he said. "Now will you come?"

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

Vacant airs, wild lands, pulsing freedom—it was all here, encircling me like a warm fur blanket on a cold winter evening. . .yet not.

I had said it myself; it was vacant. Empty. I scarcely knew what to do with so much free air to breathe. My only purpose of remaining in the dimension of the living was to ensure my father's downfall. Advising him, marrying Insangar, conquering the lands east and south of Morinórë—I told myself it was all for that, though sometimes I forgot what 'that' was. Yet in time, I did realize that whether I lived or died, it would all be the same. Dying would change nothing about myself; I would still be the same miserable halfwit as I was now.

What would I do with this freedom? Avenge Atharys's death? Kill Yrenân? Return to Lindon? That seemed so strange, as a task that had been required yet left unfinished. They were such feeble endings to such a vengeful tale.

If it truly were real, then perhaps I would have felt it more strongly. Yes—I knew though his hröa may have been ruined, his fëa was not, at least not too much physically. He had cheated death with me; why could he not do it with himself? After all, his so-called One Ring had empowered him much over the years, though he had not yet exerted or flaunt its power publicly. Even I have not yet seen very much of what it could do. Atharys might have seen more, yet I would never know.

The 'Grand Chieftain' of the Wainriders Yrenân still liked to play games of power with me, however. He threatened to leave many times before Mairon's return, before the last war, yet I knew the perfect techniques that would please him—or perhaps, frighten him.

I was lying awake upon my bed at midday, staring up at the blank ceiling, when one of my handmaids came hurrying in, her head and shoulders bowed. They had learned to do that.

"Your Highness—"

I did not move. "Why do you bother me as such?"

She glanced at the door frantically. "Your Highness, I tried to stop him, but—"

Yrenân pushed the girl aside and stepped forward. "Why am I prohibited to enter your chambers, Your Highness?"

"I do not wish to be disturbed."

Yrenân waved the girl away, and she cast a nervous look at me before departing. When she was gone, he sidled beside me then on top, pressing his lips to mine.

"You never want me."

I had not moved. "Please leave me in solitude. I would enjoy that very much."

"What is it that bothers you, Your Highness? The Númenóreans? The Eldalië? The Valar? Your father?"

"Grand Chieftain. I will ask this of you one last time. Leave me."

He laughed. "What will you do?"

"Well. . ." I put on a show of ponderation. "If you really think about it, I do have quite a bit of power in my hands. Every servant, every guard, every soldier, every lord in Lúmë-mindon as well as those in all the lands of Morinórë bow down to me. I am their queen in my father's stead."

"I have _my_ army."

"Do you? Or are they mine?"

Yrenân wavered, his face contorting in anger. Slowly, he slid off of me and stood. "I am the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. My people would _never_ betray me."

I let the falsity of the words sink in before I spoke. "Perhaps, if they liked you a little more. I am sure that, if I just asked around, I would learn of the many crimes you have committed within your own tribe and more. And once you are found to be guilty, how many would support you?"

He was silent.

"Perhaps I should punish you for your imprudence," I said softly.

To my near satisfaction, when he lifted his eyes, they glimmered with a trace of fear.

I stepped forward, and he retreated a little. "Remember—you have not yet tasted the extent of my power, Chieftain. We are allies, and we should treat each other equally, unless the other takes a wrong turn. Don't you think?"

His voice was a mutter. "Yes, Your Highness."

"Good. Now run along."

Eyes brimming with humiliation, he withdrew from my chambers and departed quietly without another trace.

Thus I waited, biding my time. Slow, insipid years wore on, though they were not wasted. Every soldier in Morinórë's army as well as all their allies including the Wainriders knew my face. I taught them to hail and greet me when I walked past, and they respected me. Unlike my father, I did not rule with fear. Not too much. They had to trust me—love me.

Every fortnight, the soldiers were called to the gates of Lúmë-mindon for a rally, whether they were conquered peoples of Morinórë, Wainriders, Eldalië, or Maiar. All nine hundred thousand of them currently in the capital gathered at the base of the tower, awaiting my arrival. I stood behind the door from which I was to enter, listening to their anticipating cheers. In the beginning they had been quiet, still uncertain of what to think of me, but I had now won their favor. At least knowing that, my heart could rest for a little while.

I gave a nod to each in the pair of guards flanking the door, and they rolled the doors open with a great _boom_. Lifting my chin, I stepped forward and into the view of my armies. The crescendo of their cheering built upon my confidence as I made my way to stand at the summit of the dais, my boots clicking upon each stone stair. Gazing upon the host, I found myself a little shocked by how massive my armies had grown. _It was you. It was you who conquered them. It is you who they bow to._ I raised a fist in the air, and the silence was near-immediate.

They knew what to do. The commanders of each faction came forward and knelt before me, greeting me in unison. "Your Highness."

I nodded in recognition. "Go on."

Yrenân, lifting his head a little from the deep bow, stood to report. I suppressed a smile; even if some of the soldiers did not believe in me, they would believe in their leader. It had to be one or the other.

"Your Highness, all is well. Our scouts report mild conditions throughout the lands beyond, and our armies have been continuously well fed and trained."

One of the other leaders stepped forward. "There is only one thing, Your Highness."

"Tell me."

"The matter is slight, however. Scarcely anything to be troubled of. It is only that those who have rebelled against Your Highness's authority have escaped into the lands west of here. They have harassed other cities, Eldalië and Atani alike."

"Ah," I said, turning to the gathered host. "We all know what to do about that, I would expect."

Simultaneously, they all pumped their fists in the air in one brisk stroke. " _Ai!"_

I nodded. "Good."

The leaders were dismissed back to their positions, and I continued on with my usual speech, fostering pride within each individual group. The Wainriders loved their culture and themselves for who they were—that I had learned from my time with them. It was no different for all the others; I only had to learn what it was that they prided themselves for. After that the matters were simple.

I drew near the end, and went over the words. "Therefore today we again must renew our promise to Arda: that we must not forsake our honor, our freedom, our sacrifices. We fight for ourselves and for what we believe. We are our own people, and no one person controls us. May this oath live long and thrive!"

They erupted again in cheers, but I did not feel them.

That night, when I returned to my chambers, I glanced out the tall, narrow windows and saw that it was snowing. Soon a seemingly pure blanket of white would cover the land, and I thought about how beautiful that would be. Not that any of it mattered. I didn't know why my mind wandered to such trivial things during these times. _I shouldn't be thinking these things._ Sighing, I clicked open my door and slipped into my chambers, yet suddenly I was aware that I was not alone.

"Yendenya," Mairon said.

I lifted my eyes, slowly, and indeed it was him. Yet in place of that fair, beautiful face he had been gifted with, I was greeted scathingly by a hideous face plagued with ugly scars, half cast in the darkness of his hood. The sight shocked me, but was shortly replaced by a sudden amusing thought. _How ironic._ I wanted to laugh, so I did. What did I have to fear? _Everything,_ a faint voice whispered inside me. _Everything._


	83. Chapter III-XXIV

CHAPTER XXIV

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

Behind the heavy drawn curtains and barred windows, I could scarcely even see Mairon; all that was left was a hooded and bowed hump of a figure bent over a desk and an ebbing candle, looking like half a barrow-wight himself. The servants were too frightened to even approach him. For this, I did not bother with the courtesies when I strode in the chamber, already speaking before I had entered the door.

"There is a council meeting in an hour. If you would care to attend, then you have been informed."

He did not move, much less answer.

For a moment, I only stood there, then began to slowly step forward. "Groveling over your own misfortune, is it? Is your own story too tragic for you to bear? Is the betrayal, the pain, the hate too much for you? Or is it the sight of your ruined face? Yes, I remember how much you used to treasure your fair looks, don't you remember? It was your favorite part of yourself, and your favorite tool. Now that it's gone, you don't know what to do, is that what it is?"

I reached forward and brushed the hood off his head, revealing skin scarred by fire, half his hair burnt and torn off in chunks. The scars were the shriveled, withering skin of an old man, pink and writhing like so many little skinny worms embedded beneath the skin. His body was shrunken, crushed when the air and the water and the life was sucked out of him. It was only for a fraction of a second that I saw the shrunken black holes that were his eyes and the deformed face before he shot up, striking me full in the face and wrenching the hood back over his head.

"Kneel," he ordered, pointing to the ground, as I touched the blood that was now running down my face. " _Kneel, damn you!"_

I was already on the ground, so it wasn't too difficult to bend my body down in the proper prostration upon the floor.

"Does that make you happy?" I said quietly. "When I kneel for you?"

"You will address your father with _respect_."

"Yes, my lord," I mocked.

He rammed his boot into my ribs so fiercely I toppled over backwards, my back slapping the floor, and seizing me by the throat, he thrust me against the wall.

I gasped in a painful breath, my head reeling. "Wouldn't—wouldn't my lord like to know what happened when he was. . . _away_ before he kills his daughter?"

Mairon did not release his grip. "Tell me then, you miserable whore."

"Haven't you wondered where my brother is?" My voice was utterly sardonic. "Haven't you ever thought about him? Likely not. Then I suppose it might please you to know that he is dead." I began to laugh hoarsely. "That's right. You heard me, _atto._ Atharys is dead. Your precious Aþārithīr yondonya is dead. Killed by his own mother. You needn't worry about the revenge; I've already executed her and all her hirelings."

The grasp upon my throat lessened, then left. Mairon staggered backwards back into his seat, like an old drunken man.

"She was a good person once," he said softly. "Then she went mad."

"Oh yes, so _that's_ who you care about? Your little lover? Did you know that she was the sister of one of my closest friends, before your ungolócë killed him? Did you know that he spent years looking for her, his last family? Did you know—" I broke off. I did not want to say any more of Athaeben, nor of Silivros.

I straightened stiffly. "If there is no more, then I take my leave."

Dipping my head, I departed from the way I came, leaving Mairon to his own brooding.

An hour later, I made my way down Morinórë's shadowed corridors to the council room. I did not bother to hide nor treat the wound upon my face that Mairon had given me, but instead I wore it with pride, like a jewel. The rest of the council members stood and murmured _Your Highness_ when I entered, and I gave them each a nod in return.

I took my seat at the head of the table, noting that Mairon had not yet come. I wondered if he would—if he would dare show his face. How amusing that was.

"My lords," I began, "we have gathered today to—"

They all turned at the sound; there were heavy steps coming slowly from the corridor, seemingly weighed down by gold. Some of them began murmuring to each other, and I waited in amusement to see how Mairon had chosen to first appear in public. He came around the bend of the corridor and entered the chamber, crowned in a mask of gold that covered all his face. The mask seemed to have melded perfectly with his skin, or how it used to be, and I wondered how he had managed to erect it in such a short amount of time. Perhaps he had used his Ring.

Again all stood, save for me, greeting him with mutters of _my lord_ before hurriedly taking their seats again. When they had settled down again, I commenced to speak again.

"Before we were so courteously interrupted—"

"You are all dismissed," Mairon said. "I would like to speak to my daughter alone."

Raising my brow in a manner that seemed subtly passive-aggressive, I remained in my seat as the others rose confusedly from theirs. "Perhaps we should move somewhere else so as to not disturb the council, my lord."

"Who is High Lord in this room?" he demanded. "Me or you?"

When they were gone, Mairon seated himself. "You will find one of the commanders to lead an attack upon the escaped Númenóreans. None must live."

"Still sensitive about the matter, are you?"

He lifted his eyes slowly, boring them into mine. At first I only felt a numbing, burning sensation within my body, then something welled up into my throat and I choked, coughing up blotches of blood onto the table.

"Does this make you happy?" I mocked.

Convulsions shook my body, as if I had the ungolócë within me again.

Mairon rose and stepped before me, the golden ring glinting upon his finger. "Does this hurt?"

"Very."

"You _will_ obey me, Hrysívë. And you _will_ tell them—any man who fails to obey me will taste blood."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

They had been walking for quite some time now; Atharys had suggested that they head back to Lindon for aid. He himself had claimed to have just come from there. Before they had been wandering the wilderness, lost and forgotten, yet now they had a guide, and it seemed that not all hope was lost. Their party was relatively small—about a hundred or so of them—rugged, and fatigued, however, and they moved slowly. Narbeleth herself found herself often tired and not wanting to go on. The only thing she had to do was make conversation with their new companion.

"Where are you from?" she asked one day as they plodded on. "Did the Valar send you?"

Atharys seemed somehow amused by that. "The Valar? No."

"Then who did?"

"No one. I am my own person."

Narbeleth smiled at that. "I'd like to be my own person."

"You can be. Now."

"That's true, isn't it?" she mused to herself. "I'm free now. I can do what I wish."

Atharys was still looking directly forward. "Where are you from?"

She rounded on him, slapping his arm lightly in jest. "You haven't even answered _my_ question yet. Why should I answer yours?"

"Well," he began. "Where do I come from? I can't really say."

"What do you mean?" Narbeleth demanded.

"I just. . .don't know. If I'm my own person, then I don't have to belong anywhere, do I?"

"But that doesn't matter. Where were you born and raised? That's what it means. It means nothing of where you are now, or how you feel."

"I suppose you're right," Atharys said. "I don't know that either. Likely somewhere in the wild, where no one dwells."

Comprehension dawned upon Narbeleth's face. "You're a bastard."

He nodded once, still not looking at her. Perhaps he was afraid of what she would think, but what warrior like him would be afraid of a little girl?

"I had a friend, once, that was a bastard," Narbeleth said. "I don't know where she is now, though. They all say she is dead. I don't believe them, though. She was captured by Easterlings a few years back, and she never came back to us, but that doesn't mean she's dead. She could still be out there."

"She could."

She was suddenly jubilant at his agreement. "You think so?" If a warrior like him thought so, then maybe it was true.

"Many things would have happened. Though the wilds are harsh, she may have been tough, and she may have survived."

Narbeleth smiled to herself. "But then she'll be a better fighter than I am."

"And you'll have to accept that. But at that time, I think maybe you'll just be happy to have her back."

There was a brief silence as they continued to tread on.

"I'm from Eryn Lasgalen," Narbeleth told him.

"Are you?"

She nodded. "The King is a close friend to my aunt." But thinking of that made her sad, so she moved on to something else. "I don't have a mother, or a father, though. Though Hinaeryn is my aunt, she pretends to be my mother too. My real mother died of grief after my father was slaughtered in a battle."

Atharys bowed his head, unspeaking.

"I think we have a lot in common," Narbeleth said.

He raised his brow. "Do we, now?"

"Yes, I think so."

They went on in silence, tasting the pleasant unprecedented tang of friendship.

* * *

In five days' time, they reached the city of Lindon, the capital, where the High King of the Noldor Gil-galad dwelt. The survivors of the Akallabêth streamed into its gates, the guards looking annoyed at having the responsibility to house more people in the city. Most of the commoners, however, were curious, and followed them when they gathered at the citadel of Gil-galad, pleading for aid.

Shouting and jostling people pervaded the air, and Narbeleth held tightly onto Hinaeryn's arm.

"Don't leave me," she said, even though she felt cowardly for uttering those words.

"I won't. Not again. I promise." Hinaeryn furrowed her brows against the gleaming sun and scanned the front gates where guards paced, keeping the crowds back. Narbeleth glanced around, checking to see if Atharys was all right. He was standing, quietly, at the edge of the crowd, occasionally stumbling a little from all the pushing and shoving.

At last, King Gil-galad emerged, his royal protector Lord Glorfindel beside him. He was as kingly as Narbeleth remembered. _He'll help us. I know he is good. He is unlike Ar-Pharazôn and the High Priest. This is no longer Númenor._

"All hail His Grace Gil-galad son of Fingon," one of his guards shouted, "First of His Name, High King of the Noldor, Defender of the Realms of the West. . ." They went on and on with the titles, but Narbeleth was not paying attention, for she had noticed Lord Glorfindel's fervent gaze filled with hate at Atharys.

"People of Númenor," the King began, spreading his arms. "We were once allies, before Ar-Pharazôn the Golden—"

"I am sorry, Your Grace," Lord Glorfindel said quietly. "I am afraid there is a more important matter at hand we must sort out immediately." He was staring straight at Atharys, and Atharys staring right back at him, unafraid.

His Grace Gil-galad seemed to be taken aback by this sudden interruption, but he inclined his head. "I trust your judgement, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Go on."

"The House of the Golden Flower is dead, Your Grace, if I might remind you," Lord Glorfindel said softly. Then he turned to the waiting people. "There is a traitor—somewhere in this crowd."

People began to mutter.

He continued on. "Somewhere amongst you, there is a traitor. Somewhere amongst your companions, your friends, your family. This person—he might be a distant cousin of yours, or a father you never knew of, or perhaps the brother of a close friend—but nonetheless, we all know the fate of traitors. It doesn't matter who they are, or who they were. What they did matters. Because what they did affected the livelihood of other innocent people, and that cannot go punished."

"Enough, Lord Glorfindel."

Atharys stepped forward, walking toward him and the King at a steady pace. All the guards unsheathed their swords and skidded forward. His Grace Gil-galad took an uncertain step backwards, but Lord Glorfindel remained where he was, his lips pressed together.

Narbeleth refused to believe it. _Atharys, a traitor? That cannot be._ She would have to have it proven before her eyes to believe the accusation. _Though he_ was _skeptical about revealing his identity. . ._

Lord Glorfindel jerked his chin at Atharys. "So you confess."

"No," Atharys said, "though I do think you may be right. I am a traitor."

Glorfindel laughed. "Do tell, do tell."

Atharys turned to the crowd. "My name is Aþārithīr, former Prince of Morinórë, son of a Maia of many names. You might know him more familiarly as Sauron the Abhorred."

Narbeleth's eyes widened. _No, you're lying. This can't be true._

"And I am not a traitor to His Grace Gil-galad, but a traitor to my own father. I have destroyed a part of his army and conspired in secret against him. Indeed, I am a traitor. Please, Your Grace, punish me with all the justice you have here in Lindon."

"You left some parts out," Lord Glorfindel said, striding forward. "You seem to have forgotten the time your father captured me and let me rot with nothing against the bitter cold but a tent."

"As I have said," Atharys told him calmly, "I do not align with my father. And you must remember, Lord Glorfindel, that I was the one who let you out." He turned to His Grace Gil-galad. "Did the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower ever happen to mention the treaty I proposed?"

"What treaty?" Gil-galad said, glaring at them both now.

"This man is a _liar!"_ Glorfindel shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at Atharys. "A filthy traitor and a liar, and the son of our very enemy. What more do we need?"

"You have not heard a single thing I have said," Atharys said.

"Enough!" Gil-galad shouted. "It seems, then, I can trust no one here. Take the—the—Maia to the cells, and you—" He turned to Lord Glorfindel. "You will be watched."


	84. Chapter III-XXV

CHAPTER XXV

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

"You called for me, my lord?" I asked, bowing my head as I entered.

"Aye," Mairon said, rising from his imp of a throne. Still he refused to remove the golden mask upon his face. "Yendenya." He paused then, and the air trembled. "Your brother, before he was. . .executed, did he do anything of great importance?"

"I think his life was of great importance. Other than that, nothing else, my lord."

"Really?" he inquired, softly. "Do you know nothing?"

I did not speak, nor dare move, my eyes cast downwards.

"Where are my Urulóki?" he said quietly.

"I. . .do not know, my lord."

"You do not _know?"_ Mairon demanded. "And when you found that they were gone, you never thought to inquire around of what had happened? I doubt that, yendenya, very, very much. You know precisely what happened, and you dance around answering me. I could frame you for treason."

"You could do anything."

He struck me, in the same spot as last time. The wound reopened and blood flowed out fresh and red. "Your brother killed my Urulóki."

"He was your son, as well as my brother."

"My Urulóki were my children," Mairon whispered. "And now they're dead."

I did not know what to say.

"Your brother deserved to die," he hissed. "He was no son of mine." Releasing me, he strode back to seat himself upon the throne.

For a moment I only sat there, speechless, upon the ground as Mairon thrust the helve of his staff on the floor and a great _boom_ made the tower tremble. Immediately the doors rumbled open, and the council poured into the room, along with guards dragging along hostages. Stumbling up, I retreated back to stand by his throne.

Mairon did not look at me when he spoke. "No one stands beside me."

I glowered at him, my eyes glaring daggers, then went slowly, but steadily and not frightened, to stand by Yrenân.

"Your Highness," the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders said, bowing.

I gave him a short nod. "Chieftain. I do wonder—where has Lord Khamûl been?"

"I do not know," Yrenân told me. "He has not been with us."

"Interesting. And his sister? Khalentharia?"

"She and the other emissary never returned from their trip to Lond Daer."

"I see." I turned back to observe the situation. The hostages all looked to be Wainriders, perhaps from Yrenân's own tribe, but when I glanced at him, his face was expressionless.

"Due to the loyal monitoring of some certain people," Mairon began, "these traitors have been found and will thus be executed."

One of the captured men collapsed to the ground, beseeching him. "My lord, no—please—I did not mean any of it. I only—I—"

The woman beside him lifted her unkempt head to scowl at him. "No. You meant every word of it."

"No, my lord, I swear—she's lying—"

A guard stepped forward and gagged him so tightly blood ran down from his mouth.

"Hrysívë yendenya," Mairon said, flicking his eyes to the traitors.

I directed my eyes toward him, my face incredulous. There was a total of around thirty people kneeling there in a line, awaiting death.

"To refuse your lord is treason." Mairon's gaze did not waver. "If you will, yendenya."

I stepped forward before him, and for a moment I only stood there. Then I bowed my head, with both hands before me, as a way of accepting the order. I told myself I had to stay alive until it was time to say the command. Then I could die, and everything would be all right someday. Yet how long would it be until the time came to set fire to the cruel?

I could not waver. The commoners always followed the one that seemed more powerful, if they were indecisive. _You're alone now. Truly alone, now that Atharys is gone. No one will help you here. No one is on your side._ Militaristically, I halted before the first one, not even stopping to see what she looked like before I whipped my knife out and slit her throat. Then the next, then the next, then the next. It seemed to get easier as it went on, but there were so many it began to drag again. Towards the middle my hand was already shaking and I wanted to collapse, but— _no. I must not let that show._

"Stop," Mairon said.

 _Shit. What did I—_

Mairon stepped off his chair of a throne. "You are too slow, yendenya. And your hand shakes. You fear. You feel. We need someone who doesn't. Someone better."

I lowered my bloodied knife from the man before me and sheathed it at my side. Turning, I bowed again to Mairon, red speckled over my body. "Forgive me, my lord, if I have displeased you."

Mairon plowed me away with his staff. I hit the wall, slamming into Yrenân and some other councillor. Something in my body broke, likely a rib. _Fuck. That reputation gone, all in one stroke._ Mairon knew that, and he used his ways to destroy it. _Who will call you Your Highness now?_

He raised his arms like a gangly tree in a twisted forest, and a fierce wind seemed to come gusting through the window. Yet it seemed that the wind was a being within itself; it moved, and I could see it with my naked eye. All of a sudden, the living wind halted, then began to march forward, slowly, in unison. It was then I could see their true forms—nine walking shades of men, armed with steel and sword.

"Seems like this is where your other Chieftain has gone," I murmured to Yrenân.

He was looking around wildly, fear evident in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

It was then I realized that mortal eyes could not see them, though they could feel their cold presence. _Is this the new craft you were devising, atto?_ When I looked at Mairon, he appeared to be neither satisfied nor disappointed; I could not tell what he was thinking. In fact, it seemed he thought no more, being scarcely even proud of his new innovation. I remembered that he would always seem to be pleased with himself whenever he accomplished something. _I suppose Númenor's catastrophe truly did break him._ At least I could soothe myself knowing that.

The Nine moved closer to the remaining traitors kneeling before the throne. "My Nazgûl," Mairon said softly. "My living dead. Hrysívë yendenya."

I came forward, the air growing colder as I walked past the Nazgûl, and I bowed before him. "My lord."

"Give the Witch-King here your cloak, so the others might see them."

I dipped my head, realizing I was trembling. "Yes, my lord."

Unclasping my cloak, I held it before me as I stepped toward the one that was in the middle of them all. In life, he seemed to have been a Númenórean, with dark hair and blue eyes, but now the black of his hair and the blue of his eyes had been leeched of color, and all that was left was a diaphanous shriveled thing.

"His name was Rhystórë son of Daethad," Mairon said. "A tragic tale. He managed to fall in love with the sister of dear Khamûl here, though it seemed misfortune befell them both when they were sent to Lond Daer as emissaries. His brother, Lord of Lond Daer, decided it would be amusing to execute the love of his life. And so he ended up here. A pity, truly."

The wraith stared straight at me with unblinking eyes. I lifted the cloak in my arms a little higher, and he turned brusquely around to let me put it on him. Reaching to clasp it onto his shoulders, I gasped and flinched away as my skin burned with the contact of his form.

"Is there a problem, yendenya?" Mairon called from behind.

I shook my head. "No. . .none."

Truth be told, I was terrified. This had not been what I was prepared for. This meant I had nine more enemies to set fire to.

I continued to clasp the cloak onto the Witch-King's shoulder even as he burned me. Then when I was finished, I stepped back and bowed again to Mairon.

"I thank you, Father, for this honor."

The Witch-King strode forward, and all standing around drew in sharp breaths, crying out. Yet some never got there; he had already begun to butcher the remaining traitors, one by one.

I watched, my thoughts sardonic. _Yes, indeed. Faster than me, and unfeeling. Spectacular work, isn't it? Truly spectacular work._

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

After living in the courts of Númenor for the time that she did, Narbeleth had learned some things. For five days, she worked endlessly in Lindon, earning what coin she could—as a fisher, a waitress, a maid, a servant. But when she returned to Hinaeryn and the surviving Númenóreans, she did not use that money. She ate their food and accepted their shelter in silence, and when she went to bed, she could not sleep for a long while.

Early the next morning, she took all the coin she had earned and concealing them in her cloak, strode to the cells. There were guards at the door, of course, and they were making loud and rowdy smalltalk when she approached.

"What do you want, girl?" one of them growled. "We don't want children the likes of you here. This is no place for a girl."

"Unless you'd like to make it a brothel," the other mused, then broke into laughter.

"Oh, pity His Magnificent Grace has banned all of those such houses here. I really enjoyed the old days."

Narbeleth cut in. "I have something you'd want."

"Eh? Like what, girl?"

"Something so exceptional it doesn't sprout from the earth, hang from trees, nor shit in the dirt," she said, her gaze fixed on them. "And nor does it fly above hills, hide in the seas, dwell in rancid bread—"

"We don't need riddles, girl. If you want something, you'd best say it quickly."

Narbeleth tossed them each a coin, and they caught them, admiring their precious glint in the first light. "I will ask you one question," she said, "and you will answer truthfully."

"As you wish, my lady," the one on the left said, pocketing the coin.

"Is the Maia being treated well?"

The man on the right laughed. "You know the answer, girl. There is no prison that houses traitors as if they are lords."

"What did they do to him?" Narbeleth demanded.

He held up two fingers. "That is one question too many, my lady."

She tossed him another coin.

"Ah. Well, I can't say too much, but I do believe—" the guard glanced around and lowered his voice, leaning in. "I heard from one of the others that Lord Glorfindel came visiting one day. And when he emerged from the cell, your sweet Maia had lost his sight."

"What do you mean?"

He held out his hand.

"You did not finish answering my question. _What do you mean?"_

Reluctantly, the guard continued. "It seemed his eyes had been infected with some kind of poison. Snake's poison, it looked like."

Shocked and horrified, Narbeleth took an unsteady step backwards. "No. . ." She looked up with sudden courage. "Take me to him."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sweetling."

"You _will_ take me." She thrust out her hand, and coin came falling at his feet.

The guard shook his head. "Not even I will take that risk."

"No. I have more. Whatever you want, I'll get it for you. I'll serve you. I swear it."

"Take her out of here," he said, and they both seized her arms and hauled her back to the street as she screamed and kicked and they hissed, _shut up, girl, or you'll lead them all here to us,_ but she didn't care because all she knew was that the unjustness of the world lingered so painfully, never seeming to go away.

After they dumped her on the street, she struggled to her feet and ran—ran back to Hinaeryn and the Elendili. "Please, _please_ —" She had collapsed before Hinaeryn, a crowd of Elendili there around her. "They are cruel to Atharys. They have already taken his eyes. What comes next will be worse. He saved you—he saved all of us from the orcs that day. We were fatigued, nearly dead, and broken. Only a fraction of us would have survived the attack if he had not been there. Will you not stand up for him now?"

Hinaeryn took Narbeleth's hands in her own. "Child. . ."

"All of you know clearly he has done no wrong. If we are to unite under one banner to fight against the Dark Lord, then we must do it now, with no doubts. The Last Alliance," Narbeleth said, lifting her chin yet still holding back tears, "begins here."


	85. Chapter III-XXVI

CHAPTER XXVI

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

"How do our troops fare, yendenya?" Mairon inquired. It was strange to answer to a man hiding behind a golden mask, especially as we sat before a table piled with food, but I spoke nonetheless.

"They fare well, my lord," I told him. "They are well-fed, well-trained, and well-disciplined. There should be nothing for you to trouble over. Especially with the banishment of council meetings. No one does anything without your orders."

"Hm." He paused briefly, then gestured toward my plate. "Drop the courtesies. Please, eat."

I dipped my head and reached for the wine, observing it curiously. "This wouldn't be the blood of your enemies by any chance, would it?"

"Certainly not. And I would expect that you would be able to whiff it out if it was. Isn't that right, yendneya?"

"Well, you can't ever be too sure about that." I took a careful sip, and it tasted more typical than it usually did, so I took a bite of the peppered bread. It may have been smarter to encourage him to eat first, yet even mentioning the removal of the golden mask might have cost me more. There was nothing he would gain out of poisoning me at this point.

"We will not march."

I lifted my head, incredulously. "I'm sorry, my lord?"

"We will not march forth to the Eldalië. They will come to us. We know our land best. This is how it must happen." Mairon drew in a breath and lifted his chin, turning toward the window. "And I will lead them."

"This could not possibly be a direct attack to _me_ , could it?" I mused, only the slightest hint of sarcasm in my voice. "It could not possibly be that my father is taking on my own strategies, is it?"

Ordinarily, Mairon would have laughed, but he seemed to have lost all sense of even his fake humor. "How is the bread, yendenya?"

"Scrumptious as the wine."

"Truly? You did not ask of it, yet you asked of the wine. Could it truly be that your senses have failed you?"

The bread stuck in my throat. I managed to swallow, laboriously, before turning to Mairon. "This isn't merely salt."

"Smart girl, but too late. You should have known I like burning things."

I pushed myself out of my seat. "I'm afraid I have lost my appetite. Pray excuse me."

"You are not," Mairon said, standing. "Come. I would like to show you something."

Forcing down the bile rising in my throat, I turned stiffly and followed as he departed from the chamber.

"How are your hands, yendenya?" he asked as we walked down the corridor, weakly lit by torchlights.

He was referring to the burns the Witch-King had given me, yet now I was not in the mood for smalltalk. "Fine."

In truth, the pain had never ceased to go, though it had been weeks now since the incident. Necromancy, it was, and I didn't doubt it had arisen from the power of the Ring. Still my hands were bound in bandages, and even lifting the lightest things would bring pain to me.

"A sore loser, aren't you?" Mairon mused.

"Was that necessary?" I said quietly, glancing out of the window at the newly built towers.

"Watching you eat cremains? No, but it was quite amusing—"

"That is not what I speak of. The cities surrendered, and yet you butchered them. Rhaendach, Caenen-gara, Hwestiath, Norbad, Thamas—they all surrendered to you, and you killed them all anyway."

"A true warrior does not surrender."

"They were no warriors. Some were soldiers, yes, but most were women, children, and elderly. You gave the order behind my back to let their streets run red with blood and black with grief, because you knew that if I was against you, my commanders would waver. Yes, how clever of you, how cunning of you to slaughtered thousands of people for nothing. You watch your soldiers rape the women as they murder their husbands. You watch as they throw the 'useless' elderly from towers and butcher the children in their sleep. You build towers from their rotting skulls even as the ravens feast upon them, and even then you feel no shame."

Mairon only kept walking, descending down the stairs. "A conqueror does not feel shame for his victories."

"What do you want?" I demanded. "What _exactly_ do you want, and how long before this madness ends?"

"First I want to know Gil-galad's plans. My loyal soldiers have already captured a scout or two, but they have refused to answer. So I have demoted them to die by slow cutting. I suppose someday before their weak bodies give out, I will have my answers. Second—"

"I don't care about how you wish to torture your victims. I don't—"

"You have already interrupted me twice, yendenya. Perhaps I should punish you. Most would be executed for it, don't you think? Perhaps I should clad you in the skin of a bear and send a pack of starving dogs upon you."

I refused to acknowledge that he had spoken. "It seems you want the decimation of the entire Eldalië population. Is ruling them not enough?"

"Them, and the Númenóreans, of course. They both have treated me with disrespect. It is all they deserve. Do not take me for a fool, yendenya. You might call the Eldalië 'them'—yet do you not remember? You were a part of them, once. Half of your blood is theirs, and half is mine. I am always trying to win you over."

I did not answer.

" _Look,"_ Mairon hissed fiercely, seizing my face and twisting it to the mines, where newly made orcs were being raised from the dirt. "Look at them—they are hideous, cruel, and unfeeling. Look at them, and look at me." He ripped the mask off and hurled it to the ground. "Are we not the same? This is what you become when you know pain, hatred. _This_ is what you become. You don't know true pain. You don't know true hatred. I'll kill them all—I'll kill them for what they did."

I only gazed back at him.

He released me, throwing me facefirst into the dirt. "The next time you talk back to me, I'll fuck you bloody."

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

The Númenóreans rallied once more at the gates of the citadel, fists punching the air and shouting stoutheartedly, all for one cause—one person. Narbeleth's words had moved their hearts, and there was more sense and logic in them than what they had chosen to do to Atharys. They did indeed remember honor in their hearts, even if they had lived for years being called traitors to the crown. Some were Elendili, those who had no doubt of their honor, yet some were former advocates for the High Priest, and more were commoners who had taken no side in the civil wars of Númenor.

Nonetheless, who they were no longer mattered; it was who they could become in the coming years—how they could change—that mattered. The future doesn't change who you were the past, however, and the past doesn't determine who you are in the future.

Narbeleth led the protest herself though she had always been frightened to stand up; she was a different person now, and her weaker self had dwindled away. Hinaeryn was beside her, her voice just as strong as her niece's.

Glorfindel burst down the steps. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Step aside, Lord Glorfindel," Gil-galad said, coming after him.

For a moment, Glorfindel did not move, staring at Gil-galad in utter disbelief. "You cannot possibly side with these—" Another look from his king had him sighing in exasperation and striding away back the way he came.

Narbeleth stepped forward. "Your Grace."

"And who may you be, my lady?" Gil-galad had to bend down a little to level her face.

"My name is Narbeleth of Eryn Lasgalen, daughter of Ambarwen," she said, and she was surprised to hear her voice projecting through the streets of the city. The people had gone quiet, and many were looking at her now. Perhaps the conviction in her voice had drawn their attention. "I was a slave in Númenor before I fled here."

Narbeleth turned to face the people. "I know some of you here, yet I know very little. Though I lived part of my childhood in this city, I cannot know everyone. However, I do know your hearts, and where it lies. Many of you house fear in your hearts. Some have hope, and others have honor. And we all have a common enemy.

"I was told a story once by an old woman I met in Armenelos, the capital of Númenor. I didn't want to speak to her very much, however, as I trusted no one I met. All the Númenóreans I had met so far had been deceiving or cruel or both. But I was forced to talk to her, as I was obligated to buy meat for my master from her, the butcher's wife.

"She told me a story about two knights who served two different kings. Often they would meet in battle, leading their armies, as they were both their king's favored commander. Every time one would win, and the other would lose. When one of them won, it would be a great victory, but when one lost, it would be a sorrow beyond mending. And thus hate grew and grew and grew.

"But, you see, as their kings' armies were about to go to war again, they were caught in a massive blizzard. Funny to be defeated by the weather. The snow was so bitter that half of their armies deserted them, and half of the ones that were left died from cold and starvation. The two knights lost their honor and fled. Funny of them both to mirror each other though they did not know of each other.

"And again, defeated by the weather, they were lost in the snow, though they found something else: each other. At first they wanted to fight, but it was just so cold that all they could do was share the food they each had left. They were brothers, you see, and they had grown up together. Something tore them apart, and they deemed themselves to be polar opposites.

"In the story the old woman told me, their enemies were winter and themselves. Our enemies are no different. We fight amongst ourselves, imprisoning some and damning them. Though we all say our winter enemy is Sauron the Abhorred, we do not unite, and thus we do not seem to hold true to our words."

She pointed east, the direction of the cells. "Atharys saved us from a band of orcs just before we arrived here to Lindon. If he hadn't been there, we would have never reached here. We would all be dead. Now when he comes willingly before you, you imprison him, just because of who his father is. Did he not tell you what he did to impede his father's dictatorship? He destroyed part of his army—the most valuable: the Urulóki—and he released Lord Glorfindel when he was taken captive, sending him back to Lindon with terms of peace that were never heard aloud in this city."

Narbeleth turned to Gil-galad. "And you repay him by shutting him in a dungeon. They have already taken his sight, Your Grace. How much more do you want? How much more before we all finally remember that we are all the same in the eyes of our enemy? If we are to win a war against Sauron, Your Grace, then we must unite, and we must not leave one soul out of this."

The people had begun a chant that came alight like a beacon that would not die so soon. " _The Last Alliance! The Last Alliance! The Last Alliance!"_

Narbeleth stepped forward, daunted by nothing. "Release Atharys, Your Grace, so we may at last complete the dream—the aim. If you do this, then all will see equality and justice under your rule, and unflinchingly we will follow you as you lead us in the Last Alliance against Sauron. The choice is yours to make, Your Grace, and it will sway the lives of thousands."

Gil-galad spoke. "Narbeleth of Eryn Lasgalen," he said, and paused. "Courage thrives strong within you." He turned to his guards. "Release the Maia."

It was only then that Narbeleth lowered her eyes, breathing in and letting out a sigh of relief. She closed her eyes, and all around her, the song of " _The Last Alliance! The Last Alliance!"_ was a burgeoning incantation to raise the hope they believed to have lost in the foregoing years. The seed had been planted. Now it was time for it to grow.


	86. Chapter III-XXVII

CHAPTER XXVII

* * *

— _The Sojourner—_

"Do you remember what I told you?" Artanis said as they rode. For miles and miles all Taeloth could see was the backs of the warriors of Lórinand marching towards one end—the Last Alliance. She was one of them now, and as a soldier her efforts would not be in vain. It had been four years since the union was formed, and at last they were ready—she was ready.

"The ultimate end of the art of fighting is not ever needing to use it," Taeloth recited.

Artanis smiled. "Yes. Have mercy when you can give it, yet there are times your heart must be as hard as stone."

"I know," Taeloth said softly. "I remember that feeling."

Silence save the sound of the march of the host pervaded much of the journey. The High King of the Noldor Gil-galad's host had already assembled at Imladris with the others, and they would be crossing paths with the host of Lórinand in an appointed location by nightfall tomorrow. And the next dawn they would march forth—to Morinórë.

That night, Taeloth went to go fetch water at the stream by their camp. In the darkness's celestial moonlight, the water was as clear as glass, rushing over the smoothened rocks as leaves fell into them and were swept away. She felt at peace here, alone, with the cold water upon her fingers. No longer did she feel an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, and no longer did she wish to be someone else she was not. Though she had enlisted in the Last Alliance, she had not done so for blood, but because it was her duty now. She was a soldier of Lórinand, and she would protect the realm with her life.

 _Yes, power. They give you strength, they give you courage. They give you many things. The Lord of Gifts can give you many things._

Those had been some ridiculous words she had believed. Now she only kept her own words in her heart. _No one can give me strength, nor power. Only myself._

* * *

— _Narbeleth—_

"They say we'll be there by nightfall," Narbeleth said, the road to Hithaeglir ceaseless before them. Somehow Atharys could still ride on a horse without running into someone or something, though sometimes he had to have some help getting off if he didn't know where he was. Now all he did was look to nothing, unseeing, and she could not help but remember that it was her who had not been able to get there in time.

Atharys dipped his head in acknowledgement that he had heard. "You've never been there, have you?"

"I have, in fact. Before they took me to Númenor, they took me to Morinórë first, and I saw Lúmë-mindon—the tower. It was taller than anything that I've ever seen before."

"They say tall buildings look imposing to the commonfolk and thus they fear the one who ordered it to be made."

"Who are 'they'?" Narbeleth asked.

"People," Atharys told her. "Lords, commonfolk—many different people."

They lapsed into silence for a little while.

"Well, if you've seen it already, you're different than the others. You would be less afraid, also knowing that it is, after all, only a building," Atharys said.

"And you've lived in it."

Atharys dipped his head again. "Indeed."

"Was it...comfortable living there?"

"Reasonably well enough. It really would not have been so terrible, if the people were more welcoming, which is quite ridiculous." He paused. "When the battle begins, I must return."

"Why?" she asked, incredulous.

"I have some tricks I have not yet used. It has all been saved for this moment, and I must not waste this chance. It could save the lives of this army."

"I don't suppose I could stop you," Narbeleth said, "and I don't suppose you'll tell me what it is."

"I cannot risk it."

They reached the camp in Hithaeglir in good time—well before nightfall. The hosts of Lindon, Imladris, Lórinand, Eryn Lasgalen, the Dúnedain, and Khazad-dûm melded into an integrated union, one last time. Their commanders met: High King of the Noldor Gil-galad, Lord Elrond of Imladris, King Amdír of Lórinand, King Oropher of Eryn Lasgalen, and High King Elendil of the Dúnedain. And there were three objectives: to unmake the One Ring, to destroy Sauron, and to destroy the foundation of Lúmë-mindon.

It was when Narbeleth was heading back to her tent that she saw Taeloth. At first she thought she had been walking in dreams again, but in her dreams the people she remembered from before never saw her. The moment Narbeleth saw her, Taeloth did too, and then all she knew was that they had dropped what they were holding to run to each other.

Narbeleth threw her arms around her old friend, and for a moment neither spoke a word, only embracing each other. "They told me you were dead."

"They told me I was dead, too," Taeloth said, laughing. "And then I told myself I was dead when I really wasn't. See, I'm here now."

"You look so different," Narbeleth observed. "I almost thought I was talking to the wrong person."

"And so do you. I would have thought the same." Taeloth strode back to retrieve the things that had fallen on the ground. "I have delightful news for you. We're cousins."

"What?"

"Ah. Well, it seems that in the years that we have not seen each other, I found out who my father was. I even met him, and talked to him, for a few days. He was your aunt's brother."

Narbeleth was taken aback by Taeloth's sudden directness. She was not used to this new girl. "Oh. Is he...here? In the Alliance?"

"My father? No. He died."

"Oh. I'm...sorry."

Taeloth laughed. "No need to be. Yours did too, if I remember correctly. We grew up together without fathers—the best part of our friendship and childhood."

Narbeleth frowned, partly in jest. "You're acting strangely."

"Me? Certainly not. All of that was many years ago now, and I put the past behind me. Most of the time. And if I were to say— _you're_ acting strangely. Before you could not speak more than a sentence without talking about boys. Oh, you were a silly child. And I was too."

"On that you are wrong. I was not only a silly child—I was a stupid child. I wish I had been smarter."

"Well, we can both say that," Taeloth said, sighing. "One of these days you're going to need to tell me everything that happened when I was gone."

"We have time," Narbeleth noted.

"I suppose we do." Taeloth picked up Narbeleth's things from the ground and dumped them in her hands. "I mean to go see His Grace Oropher. Will you come with me?"

Though Narbeleth had been uncertain of that for some time, she resolved to rid herself of that worry. "Of course."

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

"They come," Mairon said from his place by the window. "In three days' time, they will be here." With his Ring, he had summoned dark clouds to brood over the realm of Morinórë, as the darkness was favored by _his_ army—the newly raised orcs. The light troubled them, as if it reminded them of who they once were. I remembered my mother, who had been made into an orc after she had been taken from me in my childhood. She had come back to me though, so why couldn't they?

I sauntered from the table to look beside my father. "This is your big moment, isn't it? Like when a boy is knighted. I am astonished that you have not begun to jump up and down. Would you like a trophy, my lord? I can have the blacksmiths erect it out of gold, just for you." I prided myself to be the single person in Morinórë who he could threaten but not kill nor frighten.

"Your Easterlings will be the first assault," Mairon said, ignoring me. "Perhaps I should have you lead them."

It seemed that once I began to mock him, I could not stop. "I will gladly do anything for you, my lord. However, I see that you put us on the front lines—do you truly want us to die first? First you disassemble the council and make yourself a dictator, and now you tell your daughter to go and kill herself in the first few days of the war."

"You know that I don't give a damn about the Easterlings. They're good fighters, and that's all I need. And they'll frighten the Eldalië enough. And as for you, I'm sure you can assure yourself that you won't die so easily or quickly."

"My lord," I began. "I have more suiting counsel, if you would hear it."

Mairon remained silent, so I went on.

"Don't you think your newly raised orcs would be more frightening than my Easterlings?" I mused. "I suggest you have them be the first assault. They have no minds, unlike the Easterlings. People who have minds may protest, or even rebel. I don't expect they'll be very happy to find out they were sent to die first. Moreover, they are good with arrows while the orcs are good with throwing their miserable bodies into spears. And I expect you'll need more of my mind for the rest of the war. If I am out there, how am I to assist you, my lord?"

"I need no one to assist me. Can't you already see that?" He let out a seething breath. He was always seething nowadays, and I enjoyed being one of the main contributors to that. "Very well. I will put forth the orcs first."

"Thank you, my lord," I said, bowing my head, yet another silent insult. Glancing over my shoulder to the servant, I called to him. "Some wine, for the both of us." I turned to Mairon. "Come and sit, atto. You must rest before the long battle."

"I should kill you," he said after seating himself stiffly. "Safer for me, better for you."

"I agree. I'm a bit tired of life, though clinging on to it is amusing sometimes."

The servant pouring the wine lost his grip upon the glass, and suddenly it went spilling all over Mairon's arm.

" _Damn you!"_ Mairon shrieked, and the glass went falling to the floor, shattering into a thousand perilous pieces. "What kind of bullshit servants serve their lord as such?" He seized the servant by the throat and hurled him to the ground upon the glass shards. "Guards! Take his hands, before he makes the same mistake again."

"No, my lord, _please_ —I did not mean—"

"He talks too much. Take his tongue along with those hands."

I stood. "Is this wise, my lord?"

"I don't care if it is or not," he hissed, turning to me as the guards seized the man. "Now get out, before you lose yours too."

* * *

It was funny, truly—how mad, how lost he was. Perhaps he was so mad I could have slipped out my dagger and slit his throat during one of his episodes, but I could not risk it while he wore the Ring. The little golden trinket really didn't do very much against an entire army, yet if one stood alone against it they would certainly perish. Thus I bided my time once more.

In three days' time, I watched as the Battle of Dagorlad began. In the first onslaught, the Silvans of Eryn Lasgalen and of Lórinand charged Morinórë's host ere Gil-galad had given the command. I remembered King Oropher of Eryn Lasgalen, the little lord of Doriath who I had protected during the Second Kinslaying. He had called himself Talethien then, but only to me. Of course, he did not trust me, and thus did not give me his true name. When he watched me kill, seen what I had done to save, he had been frightened of me. Yet he kept his promise of getting Silivros back to safety, and after he came to understand me. I had almost forgotten about all that, yet ironically, as I watched him charge valiantly to his death, I suddenly remembered.

The first onslaught lasted months. It seemed evenly matched in the beginning, but towards the end it became a brutal slaughter. Talethien—or King Oropher now (he had been for a long time, how could I forget?)—was killed while the rest of the troops under Amdír were cut off and driven into the marshes, where half the host perished. King Amdír himself was slain with a spear through the chest. Thereafter the place became known as the Dead Marshes, and even from where I was, I thought I could see Talethien's bloodless face staring through the water to the grey skies.

I turned away, suppressing my rage, my sorrow. When I looked down at my hands, my knuckles were white, like the ashen anger of a ghost, and my chest was heaving. _No. Not now. You must wait until he leaves the tower. Otherwise you will have no chance of triumph._ But I have waited so long, and I could scarcely even wait any more. _My chance will come. It will come._

I thought about Talethien. I didn't want to call him King Oropher; that was not how I had known him as. I had known him as a stubborn young lord in love with honor and loyalty. A silly little lord who thought five hours of sleep was little. I chuckled to myself, remembering the moment. At one point he had even been so ludicrous to think that Noldor did not sleep, as he had never been out of Doriath. He did not know.

And yes—it was Talethien that had ultimately killed Curufinwë, wasn't it? Curvo had tried to kill me so I put a dagger at his throat, but I couldn't do it so Talethien finished the job for me. Sometimes things are all so ironic sometimes.

I remembered my informers telling me he had a son—what was his name? I wondered if they had even told me, or if I had merely forgotten. What a traitor I would be to forget his son's name. _Thranduil._ The name came suddenly back to me. His name is Thranduil, if he did not die in the battle. He will be King of Eryn Lasgalen after his father. An honorable position, but was it worth it to watch his father die to obtain it? Such things would be difficult to forget.

I caught a fugitive tear from my face and flung it away. There was no time left to weep.

* * *

 _A/n: Heads up. Three more chapters left until the whole thing is over! ;)_


	87. Chapter III-XXVIII

CHAPTER XXVIII

* * *

— _Mairon—_

"My lord, they have taken the field and pushed their lines forward past Dagorlad." The words came spitting out of the envoy's mouth as he knelt upon the ground before Mairon. "They will break through the Ered Lithui soon, and we'll be caught in a siege—"

Mairon slammed his fist on the table so violently the wooden surface splintered and crashed to the ground. "What do I care if we are sieged? We have enough supplies for seven years. And they come to the heart of our lands. I have not yet unleashed all of my power."

The envoy was trembling. "Y-Yes, my lord."

"Get the fuck out before I feed you to my wolves," Mairon said quietly, dangerously.

Hrysívë leaned over from the other side of the now broken table. "Is there really a need to threaten all of your envoys, my lord?"

Mairon did not turn, still seething. "Leave me. All of you. Especially you, _Princess._ "

The chair scraped against the floor as Hrysívë stood, giving him a reproachful look before bowing her head and departing from the room. He could barely stand her and her japes; she was constantly berating him silently for every move he made. Every single movement and word that came squirming out of her mouth only made him angrier than he already was. He scarcely slept, and when he did, he woke bitter and cross at every little thing.

"If you haven't noticed, you are losing the war. Unless you bring your Nazgûl with you out there to meet them in the field," Hrysívë remarked upon the new report a fortnight later. Lúmë-mindon was now besieged, and they could watch the men kill each other from their windows.

"You said 'you are' _._ _You_ are losing the war."

"It is your war, is it not? You started it, do you not deny it?" she said, tossing a grape into her mouth.

Mairon decided to abandon the observation. "Why do you keep coming to me? I wish to be left alone."

"Being left alone doesn't leave much time for battle plans, does it? Perhaps you should sneak up to their camp upon the Plateau of Gorgoroth yourself and kill their leaders." Hrysívë laughed to herself and presumed to stare directly at him. "But of course my lord would like to make all the decisions himself. Ah, what an onerous burden. I'll leave you to it then. Have a good night, atto." She stood and departed from the chamber, but none of that gave Mairon any content.

He rose and walked to the window, lingering there to watch. _I will kill the Noldo and the Númenórean, as I have vowed._

Gil-galad, was that his name? The son of Fingon. At least he lasted as High King longer than his father, who had fallen in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad by the hands of Mairon's balrog. But he had spent most of his reign in hiding, like a fool, like a craven. And now, when he was driven out of his little cave, he was found to be weak. Mairon would crush him like he had crushed his father. He would crush him for justice, for vengeance, for blood.

As for the Númenórean—Elendil—Mairon would let him burn like he had set alight all traitors to the crown of Númenor. It had been Elendil who had gotten the ships to let the remaining Númenóreans escape as the island drowned, it had been him who had insulted Mairon's power and title, it had been him who had made the Downfall. _You see? They are just as deceiving as I am, and yet they crown me with the title of the Lord of Deception._

Years passed. When Mairon told the envoy that Lúmë-mindon would last seven years if they were besieged, he had not expected for it to actually happen. He used Hrysívë's old tactic when she had been conquering the Easterlings of disease. They catapulted infected bodies into the enemy armies, some of them alive, partly alive, or dead. Nonetheless, only a section of the army could be affected by it; the Eldalië were immune to such diseases.

"Did you not say I should keep you alive so I could make use of your brain?" Mairon paced around the chamber, restless and angered while Hrysívë merely stood, her arms crossed. "You have done nothing. _Nothing!_ We have been under siege for years and years and food is short. A great part of my orcs have been slain and nothing—" He broke off.

"And I ponder why you do not blame yourself," Hrysívë mused. "Ah, another report."

The envoy came and knelt before the both of them. "My lord. Your Highness."

Mairon stepped forward and lingered directly before him. "Spit the words out, you son of a whore."

"My lord. They—they have broken the Gate."

Mairon snapped the envoy's neck the moment the words escaped out of his mouth. This was it, wasn't it? It would be the end. They scarcely even needed the help of the Valar like they did last time. And Mairon knew, if he did indeed triumph, the Valar would not be there to help them again. Not after Númenor. The mortals had disobeyed the commands of the Valar, and Valinórë was cut off from the world forever.

And yet, when the so-called Last Alliance had no aid, they had managed to break through his gates and besiege them for seven years. Ridiculous, wasn't it? So silly, truly, how Mairon had fallen so low to be defeated by mere mortals. _How many times have they betrayed me now?_ He could not even count with the fingers he had.

"I believe you are right for once, yendenya." Mairon turned to Hrysívë, blood dripping from his fingers. He looked down; he had not realized he had bashed the envoy's head in along with it. "They can never conquer my Ring, nor my Nazgûl." The envoy's body thudded to the ground.

"I am going to kill the king."

* * *

— _Realm of Grey—_

It was time. I would lead my host of Wainriders out into the field for the final assault, and then it would be over. Mairon was already out there with his Nazgûl, riding upon a lesser version of the Urulóki Atharys had killed. His forces were dying, however. Without me, they would struggle to survive out there. That was amusing. Yet as soon as Mairon headed out into the field, fire enveloped the Alliance and the battle took a drastic turn. _Perhaps the silly golden trinket truly is impregnable._

I stepped out to meet my army. They were waiting for me before the doors of Lúmë-mindon in an array of steel and swords, ready for blood. Though they were always ready for blood, I saw uncertainty in their eyes; they did not know whose blood it was they wanted. The long years of Mairon's harsh rule had turned them against him. It was what I had intended. Hatred and pain was the price that was paid.

Turning to one of my commanders, I stared directly into his eyes. _He must remember his vows._

"The Urulóki," I said. "Get them."

There had been two escaped Urulóki after Atharys's attack, but I knew they could not elude Mairon for long. Therefore I had sent men out to find them and bring them back to me. They would serve me, not my father. When we had recovered them, I hid them beneath the Ered Lithui in the east toward Rhûn. Mairon would never venture there; that realm was under my control and he did not care about it.

I lifted my chin and stepped forward to address my Wainriders. Yrenân, the so-called Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders, and Hesinyë, my general, stood along the side of the steps beside me. The latter had been the boy who had at first attempted to poison me when he thought I was in league with my father. Things had changed now, however. This boy had grown into a man, and he understood the ways as they were now. _I see that you have the potential to be a good person,_ I had told him. _No matter what happens, remember who you are. You have to—you have to remember who you are._ And he was a Wainrider, not a slave of Morinórë.

"Wainriders of Endórë!" I shouted, rallying them together.

They answered in a call that resounded through the land.

"Do you remember who you are?" I said when they had quieted. "So much has happened to all of us, and we have endured it together—the pain, the oppression, the tyranny of my father. I will not lie to you now that he cannot hear me. My heart has never been with him. It cannot be. I cannot rest assured knowing that he is slaughtering innocents out there. People that have been my friends, family, and allies.

"Cruelty and fear should not be ruling the world. We all know that, in our hearts. When we kill for him, we know it is wrong, yet we do it anyway for fear of angering him. We have been so selfish all these years. Guarding our own lives, guarding the lives of our families, guarding the lives of our friends. But now we need to guard something much larger. The world. What are we compared to all the lives in the world that will suffer under his reign after us? Many of us are mothers and fathers—we know what it is like to bring a child into this world and think about the kind of future they will live in. What do we want for them? A realm of justice, or a realm of tyranny?

"I ask you again now—do you remember who you are? The Wainriders have always been called by the others as Easterlings, but that name refers to the ones who have betrayed the good in the past. You have always been free people, roaming around lands without the restraints of a ruler. It is now time to return to who you are. You are Wainriders, not slaves of Morinórë, and you fight for the people of Endórë, for the future."

The Wainriders rose in a great cheer. " _For Endórë! For Endórë!"_

I drew in a breath, watching them chant the words—the words that would bring justice into this world once more. It rose and fell like a breathing, living being, pulsing like all the bands of energy that connected the world together. Rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall. That was the ultimate fate of nations, and today this one would fall.

Yrenân was the only one that looked panicked. "Your Highness," he called, stepping toward me. "The High Lord of Morinórë Mairon will slaughter us all when he hears of this."

"You need not refer to me as a princess any more. Sometimes things must be done as acts in order for it all to work out in the end. And as for my father, he cannot kill us if he is dead."

Suddenly the Wainriders had turned on Yrenân. "A traitor to freedom and justice!" they screamed. "A craven! A weakling!" They surged forward, seizing him.

"No—no!" Yrenân shrieked. "I am the Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders. I am your Chieftain. I am your _lord._ How dare—" His voice was drowned in the commotion, and he began to cry out in fear and pain.

Hesinyë stepped forward as their general, not their chieftain, not their lord, not their ruler. "For Endórë!" he shouted, punching his fist into the air.

A great roar penetrated the air—the Urulóki had come. When they beat their massive wings, a powerful wind swept through the lands, and all heeded their presence. They dived down, descending, and it was then I suddenly saw the person riding upon the back of one of them.

My voice pervaded disbelief, consolation, and bewilderment all melded in one. ". . .Atharys?"

The Urulókë landed before me in a strong gust of wind. "Now you are not the only one who has returned from the dead," Atharys remarked, but he did not dismount. His eyes gazed directly forward into nothing, and it was then I suddenly realized his sight had been taken away, like his mother. But he did not know, and I did not want to tell him.

I staggered forward like a fool. "You—you—"

"There is no time for this. Finish what you have started, Híthriel." Atharys jerked his chin to the Wainriders.

They were waiting for me again, and in their hands they held a forest of spears. To them, I was their Queen. Yrenân was nowhere to be seen when I stepped forward again.

"The second orc army is about to set out," I shouted. "Their blood is ours to spill." In one movement, I mounted the second Urulókë. "For Endórë!"

" _For Endórë!"_ they echoed, and then the beating of hooves was permeating the air and the earth and the water, Hesinyë leading them. They charged through the gates and rode the orcs down even as they fought, steel flashing against steel.

Atharys and I ascended into the air upon the backs of the Urulóki. Mairon had told me once before, in one of his episodes of stupor, that he could not be defeated by fire, but he had been wrong once already, and now he was wrong again. Flames hungrily devoured his orcs as if they were mere straw, leaping to consume his Nazgûl, and fire would destroy his Ring.

I breathed in again, lifting my arms and calling forth all the power I possessed in my veins. Amusing—he too had given that to me when he remade my hröa anew. Scarlet danced upon my fingers and dived down to envelop the orcs below. Rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall, I told myself again. That was the ultimate fate of nations, and today this one would fall.


	88. Chapter III-XXIX

CHAPTER XXIX

* * *

— _Hith—_

 _Ilyë nat qual,_ Nelyo had once told me. _All things must die._ Whether they were honorable people or vile people, they will all die in time. Many believe that some are so virtuous and powerful that they will never lose the life within them, but even the lands of Valinórë will fade and wither someday. And some say that this bitter winter Mairon had brought upon us would never end, but winter always turns to spring, and when the night passes, day will come again. _Aurë entuluva._ As I promised you, Findekáno, it would come. I would return to bring you—all of you who had died that day—I would bring all of you home and lay you to rest under a quiet dawn.

So many had already died fighting for Endórë. The future would blossom after their days, a living memory of their sacrifice. When this was over, all would crumble to nothing but dirt and dust—the bodies of the slain both sides alike, their swords, their shields—and grass would come there again to grow long and green upon the earth. Perhaps ten thousand years later, a village would be built upon that earth, and the children would never know of the blood that had been sacrificed there when they played upon the grass.

The Urulókë's resilient scales were heated beneath my hands from the last inferno he had released onto the army. His flames and my power merged to turn them into blackened stone. Atharys, on the other side of the army, mirrored us. Yet the fire in my blood could not last, and I weakened. Without the power of the Ring, it was difficult for me to hold on and exert so much power for so long like how Mairon could.

 _If you want to improve, then you'll have to push forward and keep going until you can't any more,_ Findekáno had told me as a child when I trained. But when I was little, I had been negligent and scarcely heeded his advice. Perhaps if I did, I would have been better. And now, ironically, I remembered that advice at the end of it all, when it was crucial. So I pushed forward and kept going, telling myself— _aurë entuluva_.

From the back of my Urulókë, I could still see Gil-galad and Elendil out there fighting. _I am going to kill the king—_ Mairon's last words before he had gone. It was amusing really, so ironic; they sounded like the words of a liberator who would come and save us all from a tyrant king. Sometimes it was hard to believe that Mairon thought himself to be the liberator, and I am sure sometimes he doubts that of himself too. Inside their minds and their hearts, every person will know when they wrong others even if they firmly deny it.

My power was spent, and I slumped forward upon the Urulókë. How good it felt to be flying again; I thought I would never again since I lost my wings. Truly it had been a dependency that I did not need. The Wainriders were free, and they needed no wings to fly with to let them feel that way. Now I could be free, with myself, with the peace of my own mind.

Then I was falling. _Rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall,_ I had said. This was my day. Someone had shot my Urulókë from under me, and he had given a screech so filled with pain that I am sure the shooter had to cover his ears. There was an arrow at my side too, and I never knew how it got there, but it was there.

The fall from my Urulókë to the summit of Lúmë-mindon was short, as if someone had planned it to be that way. Otherwise I would have fallen into the spears of the army below. I landed violently on my back, the arrow sticking out of my body. My head pounded like the drums that call in the dawn of a battle, and I could scarcely see anything clearly.

Mairon stepped forward into my view. With my muddled sight, it looked as if he were three people—three facets of himself. "Hard fall, yendenya?"

Pushing past the throbbing pain in my head, I turned myself over and wrenched the arrow out of my body. My voice was tired now, without the usual bite I liked to gift my father. "If I remember correctly, you too lost your wings. The Drowning crushed them beyond mending."

"Excellent memory for such a hard fall." He turned to watch the battle, so I could only see his back. "They should have killed you then, instead of merely taking your wings."

"It seems you have disowned all your children now," I said. "I know it was you who gave the order to shoot my Urulókë from the sky. He was your child, once, as were Atharys and I, and you killed him. I suppose I should be frightened now, shouldn't I? You will kill me at last, without hesitation nor regret. Before you had not wanted to kill your children; you still have that mercy in your heart. Yet now, I think you would not even recognize yourself."

"I don't," Mairon hissed, pointing to his ruined face. "Do you see—do you _see_ what they did to me?"

I paid no heed to that. "Do you remember Athaeben? Atharys's mother? I learnt the truth. She never executed him. She was going to, truly. She wanted the throne of Morinórë so badly that she would do anything to get it. She had done everything, save one thing—execute the heir to the throne, Atharys. But when the time came, she gave the order but could not watch them do it. She stopped them and commanded that he go into exile, even though that was the worst choice she could have made to secure her position. Everyone else that was not in that room was told he was dead. But after that day, she opened her eyes and knew she had stopped living a long time ago. She had sold herself to get what she wanted, and now when she had it, she finally realized. Now, atto, Athaeben scarcely knew her son for a day in his life, but she still loved him, because he was her child."

"I don't care—I don't care about that woman. She is dead now, and none of this matters anymore."

"Does it not?" I was still on the ground, too weak to stand, and blood leaked from my wound onto the stone floor, but my voice did not waver. "You told me once I did not know true hatred."

"You do not," Mairon said.

"For once, you are right. I don't want to hate anyone. Did you hear how I rallied my Wainriders? _For Endórë._ Not for glory, not for revenge, not for blood. For the land, for the people, for justice. If they fight for glory, they won't get it. So many of them will die, never living long enough to be honoured. If they fight for revenge, they won't get it. Revenge won't ever be satisfied, you see. You kill one person, you harm someone else who loves them. Then that revenge comes back to you, and you'll die. If they fight for blood, that's the one thing they'll get. They'll get blood, and they'll get death. But they won't be satisfied. They won't be happy."

"Why are you here, then? You're here to kill me, I know. You seem to be going against your own principles, yendenya."

I laughed softly. It was pleasant to smile. "Because it is for Endórë."

Mairon's eyes blazed. "Pick up your sword then. Stand, face me, and fight. You can't win."

I glanced up at him. "I know. I won't have to kill you, though. You'll die today, and it won't be by my hand." The hand at my side was holding back the blood oozing through my fingers. "But I'll stand, if it pleases you."

Clenching my jaw, I struggled to my feet and straightened my back to look directly into Mairon's eyes. "In another world, atto, I wish you better."

He laid a hand on my shoulder, as if to tell me the same. Then he met my eyes, and pushed me off the edge.

Solid ground left my feet, and five thousand feet below, the earth waited.

* * *

Atharys brought me back to them after my fall, though he could not see. I was partly awake when he mended my body as best he could and carried me back to them. The ungolócë was what had made my hröa stronger all these years, even though it liked to chip away at my life every moment I lived when I was weak. And now, it was what saved me from the fall, at least for a little while.

"I'm very glad you came back," I murmured to Atharys.

"Don't speak," he told me softly. "Save your energy."

" _Ilyë nat qual._ Today is my day, little brother. I might as well get all the words that I've been holding in for all these years out."

I don't wholly remember how, but sometimes then he had gotten me to the camp and laid me upon a cot as the nurse rushed to me. I was going to tell her that there was no use trying to save me, but I was too tired to draw another breath to speak. My eyelids flickered.

Atharys clasped my hand in his. "Stay here with me a little longer."

I wanted to nod for him, so he would know, but I couldn't. I only smiled.

Taeloth hastened into the tent, her face splattered with specks of blood, and Glorfindel came after her. It made me proud of her; after all these years, she had at last made herself into a warrior. She dropped to her knees, tears upon her face. "Lady Híthriel."

The nurse was trying to shoo Glorfindel away. "Too many people. Give her space to breathe."

"It's all right, Narbeleth," Atharys said. "He can stay."

The nurse—Narbeleth—gave Glorfindel a haughty look but made no more attempt to send him away.

"I'm so sorry, Taeloth." I truly was; I had only thought of the 'greater good' then, not saving individual people whom I loved. "I wasn't there for you when I should have been. I could have been, yet I chose not to be. I was selfish, and you were only a child."

She shook her head. "No. You didn't know. It's all right though, now. Everything's all right now."

I nodded faintly. "Everything's all right now."

Glorfindel had been standing silently in the back, so I turned my eyes to him. "You've been gone for so long."

He stepped forward, opening his mouth as if to say something. "Hith, I—I—"

"I know." Along with learning of Athaeben's history, I had been informed of what Glorfindel had done to Atharys. "Everything's all right now. All is forgiven. Things will change."

He could not hold my gaze and instead cast his eyes down to my wounds. Blood had soaked through the sheets and dyed it red, but I was still living, breathing, wasn't I? I could cheat death for another night.

"The diamonds in the sky," I whispered, the stars wheeling above me. "They're like the diamonds."

Glorfindel looked at me pitifully, not making sense of what I was saying. "Save your breath." And the unspoken words— _What are you saying?_

"No, listen," I insisted. "All of us—we're like diamonds—only beautiful after broken. Do you know how diamonds are made? They begin as substances in the depths of the earth, clashed and pounded until they finally emerge how they are. So pure…aren't they? They're only beautiful because they've been broken."

From his eyes I knew that he did not understand. He said nothing, and turned away, unable to bear that he thought I was going mad. Someday he would understand. Someday he would find himself again.

"We can still be good in an evil world," I said softly. We are the broken gemstones. Even though we have suffered, we can still heal ourselves and remember, so the world can be made a better place. It is a gift; to suffer is not a curse. It is a way to make you stronger, so we can pull ourselves out of it and become the gemstones. And now we are happy—truly happy."

Reaching up, I brushed a tear off Taeloth's face. "I'm glad you came back too."

His back still to me, Glorfindel drew in a sharp breath and strode out of the room.

I pressed Nenya into Taeloth's palm. "Take it back to Lórinand. It will protect the realm in the future days."

She nodded vehemently. "I will."

I smiled. "Now I can rest."

"Aurë entuluva," Atharys murmured.

"Day _has_ come again," I told him. "The night has passed. And winter always turns to spring." I glanced around the tent, paying no heed to the pain at my side. "Give me some wine. I want to toast to the broken gemstones."

Atharys gave a lighthearted chuckle despite the burden of my looming end. "No more wine. I _told_ you."

I lifted my brow. "Did you, now? I thought you were my faithful handmaiden."

"I poured your damn wine out of the window because you drank too much," Atharys said, and Taeloth laughed.

"Well, I suppose I can't say fuck it and get it myself now, can I?" I sighed, still smiling up at them. "You can go toast to the broken gemstones later then, together." _When I am gone._

And as I had promised, I stole one more night from Mandos.

* * *

 _A/n: I'm actually freaking out. Only the epilogue left._


	89. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

* * *

Sometime during the night my fëa drifted out of my hröa and lingered somewhere toward the ceiling to watch the light of life fade out of me. This, I know, is a strange thing to explain to you; for my consciousness dwelt in my fëa hovering in the air as I watched myself die upon the little cot. Taeloth and Atharys had remained there beside me the entire night, giving off a little glow in the starlight. From Mandos, all that lived emitted this soft glow, while the ones who had passed drifted as diaphanous grey figures. You see, Mandos has his halls, but he is also omnipresent—the realm of Mandos is a mere dimension within all the others. From Mandos we can see the living, but they cannot see us. And sometimes the bonds tying the world together slip, and the living tell of the ghosts they see, and others tell them they are delirious.

So here, one step in the dimension of the dead and one in the living, I watched the glow of my hröa flicker then vanish.

I don't remember ever closing my eyes, but the next time I saw again, I had passed wholly into the realm of Mandos. My fëa sat up from where my hröa still lay on the cot, and I felt eerily weightless. Sometimes moving through the dimension of Mandos felt like I was walking my way through water; that is why no one moves very quickly here.

In another moment, I found myself drifting off the cot. I glanced at Taeloth as she turned Nenya over and over in her hand, thinking. She did not seem to notice that I had passed already. Atharys, however, lifted his head. His eyes looked toward nothing, but he knew.

From Mandos, I watched the end of the battle transpire. Mairon was overthrown by Elendil and Gil-galad, but they too perished by his hand. _You killed the king you wanted to kill after all, atto._ I did tell him of how futile vengeance was, but he had been too proud and would not listen. When you have gone so far, how hard is it to return to who you were? Isildur, the son of Elendil, ultimately killed him in the end, slashing half his hand off and wresting the One Ring from him. It was not destroyed, however, but that is a story for another time.

What still saddens me to think about is that the Wainriders never received the gratitude nor the recognition they deserved. They were persecuted, and none ever recognized that it was them who had truly saved Endórë. Some of them accepted that, remembering that they had fought for justice and for the people and for the future, yet many did not. Hesinyë led them back to their old lands to run wild and free, though they always remembered. Savages, the others called them, and wild men—half trolls with white eyes and red tongues.

In the aftermath of the fall of Morinórë, many of the Eldalië still in Endórë departed to Valinórë, yet some still remained. Taeloth and Atharys stayed, and their friend Narbeleth too. Taeloth continued to serve as a warrior of Lórinand and rose to become a high-ranking commander under Artanis, who became Lady of Galadhrim after King Amdír's death. As Atharys lived his days in Lindon, Narbeleth returned to Eryn Lasgalen and persevered in her studies as a healer. As for Glorfindel, he went to Imladris to serve under Elerondo, who never took up the title of High King of the Noldor after Gil-galad. And in due course, the Eldalië forsook their cravings for vengeance and became known to be filled with a sadness that was blessed and without bitterness.

The Second Age ended here, and the Third began with the crowning of Isildur as the High King of Arnor and Gondor. After lingering for the funerals of Gil-galad and the others who had died in the war, I parted from these lands.

Like the dream I had received all that time ago after they had taken my wings, my fëa drifted to the northern lands, past Forochel, past the Drowned Lands, and to the Isle of Himring. Climbing out of the boat, I stepped onto the grass and walked forward.

"You're here," I said to Mae.

He looked nearly the same as he had in life. "And so are you."

For a long while, I think, we stayed there, and we watched the days and nights pass. And when the Third Age drew to an end, the remnants of the Eldalië in Endórë left the Hither Lands and returned to Valinórë. Many of the Atani in Endórë, and even some of the Eldalië themselves, thought of the Undying Lands as a place of bliss and happiness, where nothing could be hindered nor hurt. Perhaps that had been how it was once, but not anymore. The Eldalië brought their quiet melancholy with them, and even after bidding farewell to the Hither Lands, it seemed that that had become their home rather than Valinórë.

 _Findaráto, do you remember him?_ When he departed Valinórë to go to Endórë all those years ago, he had left his Amarië behind. I was told that she had stayed because she was not permitted to go. And when he returned after his death in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, they were reunited, but it would never feel the same, would it?

Situations were alike for so many others. To be together forever and happy—those are fantasy tales for children who have not yet learned of the rigid and cruel ways of the world. When the days were young, I might have said I would fight for love and cling onto it for thousands and thousands of years. No matter how long, I would never weary. I would never abandon you. I would wait until I returned to you, or you returned to me. We were meant to be together forever.

But— _Ilyë nat qual._ All things must die.

I do not know how much longer I lingered there, but some time later, the Valar decreed that the ways of the world will change once more. It should not only be the Atani who live and die as such. For too long the Eldalië had suffered and remembered; it had become a curse. Funny how the Númenóreans fought so long for deathlessness. Now, we could choose either to move on to another life or to stay in Mandos, mourning and remembering. In the new life we could build, we would not remember who we were before, but some do. We would forsake who we were, nonetheless, and we would forsake everyone who we had been with.

I looked up at Mae, his hands clasped in mine. "Ilyë nat qual."

"I'm glad I knew you," he murmured. "The last time we didn't have a proper farewell."

I smiled. "I hope we meet again."

"You won't know it's me, though."

"I might," I told him.

And now, I stand at the bank of the river, gazing at the bridge before me. When I cross, there will be no going back. In my hands I cradle scatters of broken gemstones as I look directly forward. Something I cannot see is on the other side of that bridge, waiting for me. I have been wanting to let go for so long, and now the chance is here.

I let the broken gemstones fall to the ground, walking forward. I will forge new ones in this new life.


	90. Author's Note & Acknowledgements

AUTHOR'S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

* * *

First, I just have to say thank you so much to all the readers! It's been such a long journey, and y'all are basically the only reason we made it all through. Please let me know what you thought of the ending or just the whole story in general in the reviews! Obviously I'm an amateur writer (yes, I'm sixteen, and newly sixteen) and I didn't edit this, so this definitely isn't perfect. I'll probably do a second draft in a few years. Nonetheless, I hope you liked it and perhaps learned a few things from it.

And just another quick note: I am planning to write a Silmarillion (First Age) screenplay for a TV show before the big people do it, look out for that. After all, _The Gift of Broken Gemstones_ was based on the Second Age, and the new LotR Amazon show is this exact time period.

Honestly, I'm really sad this book is over. It was really fun to write and I actually just cried at the end for no reason. I suppose I should stop rambling now. Here's to the end of the story.


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